by Robert McCaw
“Ah, Detective Kāne?” Koa turned to face a beefy man who offered a fleshy hand. “Gunter Nelson.” He spoke softly, stretching his Germanic first name, robbing it of its guttural quality.
They shook hands. Looking maybe sixty-five, Gunter projected roundness with thick stubby legs, a beer drinker’s sagging belly, a barrel chest, sloping shoulders, and a tree-trunk neck supporting a big head with an unruly mop of gray-white hair. A shaggy beard with an untrimmed mustache camouflaged the shape of his face. Folds of skin surrounded limp eyes, like those of a puppy.
“Will you join me for a fake beer?” Koa asked. “Or perhaps you want the real thing?”
“The real thing, from Holland,” Gunter responded, motioning to the waiter as he lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Koa.
“Quite a show you astronomers are putting on.”
“Colossal waste of time and money, all for the aggrandizement of our prestigious director.” The hostility in Gunter’s voice surprised Koa.
“You’re not taken with Masters’ discovery?”
“Oh, the discovery is genuine enough, but chance does not a Galileo make.”
What had Nālani said about this man? It eats him alive that he’ll never be top dog. She had that right. And resentment, in his experience, led people to do strange things. “You believe it was luck?”
“Masters is a glass mechanic, not an astronomer. He’s an optics guy. This spectacle he’s putting on? It’s all optics.”
“There you are.” Nālani glided up to the table, looking radiant in a flowing Hawaiian dress adorned with a pikake lei. The jasmine flowers spread their rich perfume in a halo around her black hair and golden face.
“You look stunning.” Koa stood to welcome her.
“Aloha.” Nālani gave Gunter a smile. “I’m looking forward to this evening. This sometimes-excuse for a boyfriend”—she inclined her head toward Koa—“never takes me to a real party.” The melody of her voice robbed the remark of criticism.
“Masters warned me not to say you’re a policeman. How do you want me to introduce you?” Gunter asked.
“That’s easy,” Koa responded, “you can introduce me as a county employee.”
“Fine, and you want most to meet the folks who worked with Keneke,” Gunter responded.
“Yes, especially those who were around during the week of January 19.”
“That would include members of the verification team.”
“Yes. This may be my best opportunity to size them up.”
“Through the looking glass and into the spectacle,” Gunter quipped as the two men escorted Nālani toward the party.
Venus, the first bright planet of the evening, emerged from the twilight, and guests crowded the patio outside the ballroom. Flickering torches made shadows dance in the gathering dusk, and pahu—sacred coconut drums—beat out the ancient rhythms of Hawai‘i. Waiters clad in Hawaiian prints glided through the crowd with champagne glasses and trays piled high with shrimp, sushi, and tidbits of kālua pig.
It resembled a gathering of Hawaiian royalty, Koa noted wryly. The governor and the two state senators passed as modern ali‘i. Around them gathered the kahuna of astronomy, attended by the maka‘āinana, the commoners, and served by the ‘ōhua, the waiters. Only the mō‘ī, the king, was absent. Dr. Masters was nowhere to be seen. That was just as well, Koa mused. He couldn’t imagine an arrogant white guy as a Hawaiian king.
Gunter led them to a group that included a member of the verification team. “Let me introduce Koa Kāne and Nālani Kahumana, Dr. Yuri Andropovitchi.”
Nālani extended her hand.
“Dr. Andropovitchi is a leading Russian astronomer, a man with many discoveries to his credit,” Gunter said.
“Ah, Gunter, you do have an eye for beauty.” Yuri’s eyes dallied too long on Nālani as he took her hand in his long, bony fingers and bowed slightly to bestow a kiss upon it.
The man’s fawning over Nālani annoyed Koa. First Charlie Harper and now this Russian ladies’ man.
“Thank you, Dr. Andropovitchi.” Nālani withdrew her hand.
As Koa shook hands with Yuri, Dr. Reinhardt Schlingler approached and greeted Nālani. “Mein leitender stern … my guiding star.”
Nālani blushed at the compliment. “You are too kind, Herr Doktor.”
“Dr. Schlingler and I share a common interest in opera,” Gunter interjected.
“Ja, ja. When one understands opera, everything else, even cosmology, is child’s play.” Koa caught a twinkle in Dr. Schlingler’s eye and sensed why Nālani had taken such an immediate liking to the German.
Koa turned his attention back to Andropovitchi. “So you and your colleagues have verified Dr. Masters’ discovery beyond all doubt?”
The Russian seemed taken aback by the abrupt inquiry. “Nothing in science is beyond doubt, Mr. Kāne.” He seemed to be trying to place the name. “But to answer your question, the evidence I have seen satisfies me that Dr. Masters has made a discovery of extraordinary, truly revolutionizing, significance. But the credit, I think, is not for Dr. Masters alone.”
“Oh, why do you say that, Dr. Andropovitchi?”
“I am referring only to the telescopes. This discovery would have been impossible with any other instruments on the face of the earth.”
“Ja. Ja,” Herr Doktor Schlingler interrupted, “it is a magic instrument. Like the magic mirror in Handel’s Semele that enhances the beauty of the beholder.” The German startled them with the richness of his voice as he sung Juno’s part from Handel’s measured recitative in Act III, Scene 3 of Semele. “‘Behold in this mirror. Behold in this mirror. Whence comes my surprise.’”
They all laughed. “Ja, Herr Doktor, it is so,” Yuri responded.
“‘Whence comes my surprise.’ That’s wonderful.” Nālani’s face bloomed with delight.
A man, actually more of an overgrown boy of perhaps forty-five, towing a reticent, somewhat younger woman, joined the group. A pained expression flickered across Gunter’s face, and Koa recognized Charlie Harper’s round face from the photograph at the observatory headquarters. “So Gunter, you’re hitting on the observatory’s Hawaiian babe.” Charlie moved toward Nālani, extending his arm to encircle her waist, before Koa stepped between them, blocking the man’s move with a subtle shove.
“Nālani doesn’t appreciate your advances, Mr. Harper,” Koa said evenly.
“Who are you?” Charlie asked.
“Not someone you want to mess with, Mr. Harper.” Koa spoke softly, but with a touch of menace in his voice.
“Figures,” Charlie snapped.
“And why is that?”
“Hawaiian birds of a feather flock together.”
Koa restrained himself and ignored the slur. He’d accomplished what he wanted—warning off the workplace abuser. Instead, he turned his attention to Linda Harper, curious about the author of the apparently intimate note found in Keneke’s truck. She gave every impression of hiding within the sunglasses that covered the upper third of her face. Koa wondered if she was concealing an injury. “Mrs. Harper,” Koa began, “I understand you knew Keneke Nakano.”
She tilted back in fright and shook her head.
“Leave my wife alone.” Charlie Harper’s moist breath, ripe with the smells of champagne and sushi, washed across Koa’s face.
He knew, and he’s jealous, Koa thought. Maybe the chief had it right, and Keneke had succumbed to a jealous husband.
Nālani intervened to relieve the awkward moment. “It’s so exciting, the discovery and this party.” She gestured to indicate the surrounding crowd.
“Perhaps, if you’re Thurston Masters.” Charlie lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and again advanced into Nālani’s personal space.
She adroitly stepped back before Koa acted on his impulse to block Charlie’s path again. “Actually, I ran the gravitational lens survey that first located this odd collection of celestial objects. What Masters now calls the four aces.”
“So it’s your discovery?” Nālani raised her eyebrows.
Charlie, aware that Gunter was listening to this exchange, retreated from his boast. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say that.”
“And he helped Johann Sebastian Bach compose the ‘Art of Fugue,’” Gunter said sarcastically.
Nālani fought to suppress a giggle.
“Damn, Gunter, that’s not fair. I’m just explaining.”
“Just the way Chancellor Bismarck explained his Kulturkampf to the Society of Jesus.”
“Fuck you and your German history,” Charlie muttered, turning on his heel and hauling his mousy wife away.
“Lovely fellow, and the two of you get on like France and Germany,” Koa observed.
“Ah. Dostoyevsky had it right. Sarcasm is the last refuge.” Gunter smiled.
His grin turned to a frown as a short, round blob of a man approached. Koa looked down on the top of the newcomer’s head, where thinning hair lay in ironed streaks across a bald pate.
“You know it’s a fraud, a shameful fraud.” The little man seemed happy to convey this shocking news.
“What’s a fraud?” Koa asked before Gunter could insert himself.
“This whole discovery. It’s just like the moon.”
“The moon? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You don’t really believe that men walked on the moon.” It wasn’t a question. “All a conspiracy, a government trick to raise taxes.”
Koa smiled in amazement. What was a guy like this doing at an astronomical convention? Then again, maybe this sort of gathering attracted nut jobs.
“But what about all those pictures of Neil Armstrong walking on the moon?” Nālani interrupted.
“Hollywood trick. The government set up a studio up in the Haleakalā Crater, right over there on Maui.” The man pointed to the northwest. “Took those pictures right here in Hawai‘i.” The little man stuck out his hand. “I’m Joseph Jeebers, president of the Cosmic Society for Scientific Veracity.”
“Well, Joseph, what’s wrong with Dr. Masters’ discovery?” Koa asked.
“He’s a government agent, you know. He worked for the Air Force and helped them fake the Star Wars interceptor test results. It was part of President Reagan’s plan to steal billions from the taxpayers for the Star Wars defense contractors.”
Koa shook his head in amazement at how some people could find a conspiracy behind every tree.
“My friends undoubtedly appreciate your insights, Mr. Jeebers,” Gunter said, deftly steering the group away.
He seemed to be guiding them toward a woman with chalk-white skin, when Koa caught sight of a familiar head of snowy white hair. He excused himself and led Nālani by the hand.
“Good evening, Prince,” Koa said respectfully. “May I introduce Nālani Kahumana?”
“Miss Kahumana, a distinct pleasure. You are most beautiful.” The prince turned to Koa. “You have an interest in astronomy, Detective?”
“No special interest, but the Pōhakuloa victim was an astronomer at the Alice—”
“Terrible news about Keneke Nakano. He had such a great future ahead of him.” The prince spoke in a flat tone, devoid of emotion.
He doesn’t seem upset, Koa thought. “So you knew Keneke.”
The prince ignored the question. “You were a bit rough on my friend Aikue ‘Ōpua, weren’t you?”
“The two of you could have told me about the discovery of the body.”
“He had his reasons. The haole authorities don’t treat our sovereignty brothers with the respect they deserve.”
The prince hadn’t denied having heard of the body from ‘Ōpua. Koa began, “Did he tell you about the whalebone dagger—?”
Opera music blaring from the loudspeakers drowned out the end of Koa’s question. The music sounded like something heavy and Germanic, maybe Wagner. Dr. Thurston Masters and his wife, Christina, appeared high atop a long staircase. An elegant woman in her forties, she wore a sleek dark blue designer dress with subtle gold jewelry. Although she was a good ten years Masters’ junior, they made a stunning couple. Someone began to clap as they descended. Others joined in, and the whole patio erupted in applause and cheering. The mō‘ī, the king, had arrived with his queen, staging a sensational entrance.
Gunter rejoined Koa and Nālani, but he wasn’t clapping.
Christina Masters stood apart as her husband moved easily from one adoring group to another. Thurston chatted casually with scientists and legislators, graciously accepting congratulations and posing for photographs with favored guests. The politicians especially, Koa pointed out to Nālani, wanted to be photographed with the great astronomer.
Koa shifted his attention back to Mrs. Masters. She stood alone on the fringe rather than in the center of the celebration. As he studied her athletic body, nicely outlined in a sleek midnight-blue dress with obviously genuine gold jewelry, Koa puzzled over the contrast between the couple’s grand entry and Christina Masters’ current isolation. He sensed she was estranged from her husband or maybe too shy to participate in this public gathering. Whatever the cause, she was plainly ill at ease. Slowly, a group of women coalesced around the director’s wife. Suddenly, Christina Masters froze, her face twisting into a strange mask. Koa tried to decipher the fleeting expression. Anger? No. Contempt. Yes, scornful contempt.
Koa followed Christina Masters’ gaze across the crowded patio to a stunningly beautiful young Hawaiian woman, wearing a simple white silk dress, expensively tailored to emphasize her voluptuous figure. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, with long black hair flowing over the soft golden skin of her bare shoulders.
Koa pointed her out to Gunter. “Who’s that lovely young woman?”
Gunter rolled his eyes. “Miss Leilani Lupe. Die Geliebte unseres prestigevollen Direktors.”
Koa didn’t understand. “What?”
“Just my German roots showing.”
“What’s it mean, Gunter?” Koa insisted.
“She’s Masters’ extracurricular entertainment, if you get my drift.”
Koa looked back toward Christina Masters, but she had disappeared. Koa scanned the nearby groups. Movement on the stairs caught his eye, and he saw Mrs. Masters hurrying away toward the hotel lobby.
The following morning, Thurston Masters’ discovery made headlines around the world.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, roughly twelve days after Keneke’s death, Koa arrived early at the old mission church near Hāwi to attend Keneke’s funeral. Mourners came from the telescopes atop Mauna Kea, the University of Hawai‘i, and a dozen other places. They filled the hundred-year-old church, overflowing onto the walk, the lawn, and the graveyard. People crowded close around the little church, straining to hear through its open windows. Koa stood in the crowd, watching the mourners.
As Keneke’s uncle Kimo helped a young Asian woman from a black rental car, Koa recognized Soo Lin from the picture in Keneke’s apartment. Even though dressed in black and barely able to hold back tears, her graceful—but proud—posture, subtle Asian features, and perfect skin made her beautiful in ways a photograph could never capture.
After escorting Soo Lin into the church, Kimo joined Thurston Masters and four others whom Koa didn’t recognize in bearing a wooden casket up the narrow stone steps and into the tiny sanctuary. Koa paid particular attention to Masters. Although he had shown little emotion when discussing Keneke’s death in his office, Masters’ long face now bore a solemn, almost depressed expression bearing witness to his grief at the loss of his young protégé.
Just before the service began, an antique black Rolls-Royce stopped in front of the church. The Hawaiian driver sprang out to open the door for a tall, white-haired man in a black suit, who walked slowly up the stone steps toward the church. Without hesitation, the crowd parted, allowing Prince Kamehameha passage into the house of worship. Aikue ‘Ōpua followed him up the aisle to the pew immediately behind Kimo and Soo Lin.
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As a young Hawaiian minister mounted the pulpit and spread his arms, the chatter from the mourners receded. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Praise be to the Lord.” The preacher lowered his arms. “We are gathered together today to comfort and commemorate. We comfort Kimo Nakano, who has lost his only nephew. We comfort Soo Lin, to whom the Lord hath given, and from whom the Lord hath taken, the miraculous starlight of love. We comfort each other for the loss of a uniquely Hawaiian spirit that touched and intertwined too fleetingly with our own lives.”
The minister’s voice waxed and waned, but Koa paid little attention as he scanned the funeral-goers. He didn’t expect to see signs of guilt, and he didn’t. When the service reached its conclusion, Kimo, Soo Lin, and Prince Kamehameha gathered in a knot at the door. Other mourners, waiting to pay their respects, left a respectful space as the tall, white-haired father figure, the stooped war veteran, and the grieving young Asian woman exchanged condolences.
As the crowd flowed from the church, Koa walked to the prince’s Rolls-Royce and, catching the driver by surprise, quickly slipped into the backseat. When the driver protested, Koa flashed his badge and said, “Inform the prince that Chief Detective Kāne is waiting for him.” The driver got out and walked toward the church, and after a while the prince joined Koa in the back of the Rolls.
“Detective Kāne, does your chief condone his officers accosting people at funerals?” The prince’s Oxford English didn’t conceal his caustic tone.
“I thought you might favor discretion over a meeting in full view of all the worshipers.”
“I would favor more respect for my privacy.”
“Prince—” Koa began.
“This meeting is over, Detective. Kalā,” the prince said, speaking to his driver, “could you help Detective Kāne out?” The driver sprang out and opened the door for Koa.
“I guess Chief Lannua made a mistake when he told me you’d help find Keneke’s killer.” Koa spoke the words softly, almost reluctantly.
The prince stiffened at the implicit warning. With an imperious gesture, he stopped the driver. He stared at Koa. When the prince lowered his gaze, Koa figured he’d realized that the matter would be pursued one way or another.
