by Robert McCaw
A new eruption of superheated gases blasted through the school. Pele’s fury lifted the steel roof entirely off the building, casting it aside like so much tinfoil. The front wall exploded. Massive chunks of concrete—some twice the size of an SUV—flew about like children’s toys. In the center of it all, steam and ash fountained fifteen hundred feet into the air. Even from a quarter-mile away, the noise overpowered all other sounds, and heat turned faces red. Fine gray ash filtered out of the sky like dirty snow.
“My God,” Basa exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“If there had been kids in that school tonight—”
“We’d have hundreds of fatalities,” Basa finished Koa’s sentence. “People should be thanking their lucky stars Pele gave us a preview.”
“But they won’t,” Koa responded. “You thought people were riled up. Just wait ’til these images go viral. Parents will go ballistic.”
“I suppose you’re right. And Gommes won’t be selling houses in the KonaWili subdivision anytime soon. Wonder how much money he’s lost on this project?”
“The forty million purchase price for starters.”
Basa whistled.
It was late when Koa arrived back in Hilo. He’d been running at full tilt since the school blew up and needed a break. He called Nālani, suggesting they make dinner together. Cooking with her by his side always had a calming effect on him. He then rang Hook Hao, his fisherman friend, and ten minutes later, Koa parked at Wailoa Harbor, where he crossed the quay and boarded Hook’s commercial fishing vessel, named Ka‘upu, Hawaiian for albatross.
“Aloha, my friend,” Hook said, as he stepped from the wheelhouse, dressed in a tee shirt, bearing the Suisan Fish Market logo, cutoff shorts, and his ever-present, size sixteen black rubber boots. A giant of a man, he’d spent his whole life around the Hilo docks and wielded a gaff like an extension of his arm. Hook knew all the dirty secrets worth knowing on the island’s waterfronts. Ever since Koa helped Hook’s son out of a jam, the big fisherman had been a valuable source of information for Koa. Along the way, they’d become fast friends.
Koa reciprocated with an aloha, and the two men chatted awhile, before Koa asked, “What’s in the fish locker tonight?”
“Depends on what you’re offering,” Hook responded.
Koa pulled out two hefty Cuban cigars. “What is a pair of these worth?” He dangled the two Montecristo Edmundos playfully.
“Ahh,” Hook sighed with delight before breaking into a broad smile. “You like ‘ōpakapaka?” It was a rhetorical question. Blue snapper fresh from the ocean was one of the island’s delicacies. They exchanged prizes, and Koa headed for home to share his “catch” with Nālani.
On the infrequent occasions when they both had time, he and Nālani loved to whip up special meals. Favoring the savory, he made a wicked nori-wrapped ‘ahi and delicious vegetable risottos. Nālani specialized in sweets. Friends begged for her to-die-for tarte tatin. Koa and Nālani, both covered in aprons, enjoying a good Russian River chardonnay, swapped stories, laughed, and occasionally kissed as they reveled in foodie heaven. The prospect of ‘ōpakapaka with a ginger crust only added to their happy mood. More relaxed than he’d been in weeks, Koa managed to put KonaWili out of his mind. Then the doorbell rang.
Koa opened the door to find Walker McKenzie. The reporter, dressed in jeans and his signature white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, might have just stepped from behind the newsroom cameras.
Annoyed by the interruption—especially from a reporter—he wanted to shut the door, but Nālani came up behind him and recognized TV’s famous “Mr. Disaster.”
“Walker McKenzie!” Nālani beamed. “What a treat.” She pushed the screen open.
“Hello, Nālani, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” McKenzie, who somehow knew Nālani’s name, gave her his trademark on-air grin, and Nālani nearly swooned.
“Please, come in,” she offered, and McKenzie stepped inside before Koa could intervene. “Have a seat.” Always gracious, Nālani added, “Can I get you something? Maybe a glass of wine?”
“That would be nice,” McKenzie said, taking a seat and looking around the cozy cottage. “Nice place.”
Remembering the mayor’s warning—“You don’t talk to reporters. Watanabe will handle the press”—Koa cut McKenzie off before he started asking questions. “I don’t have any new information on the KonaWili situation.”
McKenzie repeated the grin. “Actually, I’m not here about KonaWili.”
Nālani poured a glass of chardonnay for the reporter. He took it and sipped. “Russian River,” he identified the wine, nodding his approval.
McKenzie had piqued Koa’s curiosity. “If not KonaWili, what brings you to Volcano?”
The reporter swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip. “We’re doing a human-interest story on you.”
Koa didn’t like the sound of that. “On me?”
“Yes. The sugar mill worker’s son from Laupāhoehoe graduates from the prestigious Kamehameha schools, plays football for the UH Rainbow Warriors, serves his country in the 5th Special Forces in Afghanistan and Somalia, joins the police force, and rises to the rank of chief detective. Our viewers around the world will be charmed.”
The idea repulsed Koa. Deeply suspicious of the press, he stayed in the background even when the mayor hadn’t warned him to stay away from reporters. Let the politicians have the limelight. He appreciated the reporter’s next suggestion even less.
“Your brother’s history only makes the story more fascinating.”
Koa felt his heart rate jump. He hated having his own face plastered across the TV, but dragging the family name through the mud yet again because of his brother’s crimes was intolerable. “I want no part of this,” Koa responded hotly, moving toward the door to show the reporter out.
Walker McKenzie hadn’t become a national news celebrity by failing to anticipate the reactions of his subjects. “We don’t need your approval,” he said, “and we could do this story without your cooperation, but there’s an angle you might find interesting.”
Koa stopped. “What’s that?” he asked, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.
“I’ve been working on a story about the personality changes in veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan who suffered brain injuries. Medical experts tell me frontal lobe injuries frequently trigger significant personality shifts, typically making people more impulsive and aggressive.”
Koa thought he saw where the reporter was heading, and, if he had it right, the idea intrigued him. He returned to the chair opposite McKenzie.
McKenzie continued with a glint in his eye. “I sent one of my gophers to Arizona to interview Ikaika. That’s when I learned he’d been brought back here and fainted. I had someone check Queen’s Medical in Honolulu and discovered he’s had surgery for a frontal lobe brain tumor.”
McKenzie enjoyed phenomenal sources, Koa thought, wondering how the man had gained access to Ikaika’s medical information. Koa knew he should be furious but held his temper to hear what the reporter had to say.
“If you work with us on our human-interest story, I’ll put you in touch with some serious medical experts, people on the cutting edge of brain research. At a minimum, they may help your family cope with Ikaika’s surgery and recovery, and there is a possibility they could help you build a case your brother’s brain tumor is at least partially responsible for his criminal conduct. They might even help you structure a case for parole.”
Koa felt a flash of hope spark through his brain so strongly he shivered. Ikaika paroled and in control of his behavior would be a family dream come true, a triple rainbow for his mother. He remembered Dr. Carlton’s words: “I can’t tell you when the tumor developed, but he’s most likely had at least a small tumor since childhood.” Could a brain tumor have triggered, or at least exacerbated, Ikaika’s criminality? Koa would never know if he didn’t explore the question. He sat for several moments before speaking. “And wha
t do you get out of this?”
“That’s simple. I get what I live for, covering interesting stories. I get your cooperation on the personal biography, and, if the experts can help your brother, CNN gets an exclusive on that story, too.”
Koa had to admire the reporter’s straightforward approach. He offered invaluable access to experts—something out of Koa’s reach—and McKenzie only wanted to do his job. An exchange Koa himself might have proposed. Still, he hesitated. The mayor would fire him if he learned of an alliance between Koa and Walker McKenzie, and a puff piece about his chief detective would upstage and annoy Police Chief Lannua. Other detectives might even be jealous.
Nālani, sensing his uncertainty, intervened. “Koa doesn’t have to decide tonight, does he?”
Bless her, Koa thought, she’s given me time to think.
“Of course not,” McKenzie responded. “Take some time and call me if you have questions.” He handed Koa a card and thanked Nālani for the wine.
After McKenzie left, Koa and Nālani talked long into the night. The decision tortured Koa, pitting his deep-seated distrust of the press and his concern about the effect on his role as chief detective against his familial ties, and, as the oldest Kāne male, those ties weighed heavily.
“Māpuana would want you to do what you could for Ikaika,” Nālani stated the obvious.
“But what if nothing comes of it? I’ll look like a publicity hound. It’ll piss off the chief and undercut my leadership of the detectives.”
“Sure, there are risks,” Nālani conceded, “but you have to weigh them against the possibility of putting your family back together.”
In the end, Nālani recalled an old Hawaiian proverb, and it turned the tide of his thinking. ‘O ke keiki he loa‘a i ka moe, ‘o ka pōki‘i ‘a‘ole—one can produce a child by sleeping with a mate, but he cannot produce a younger brother. Brothers were brothers, and regardless of Ikaika’s crimes, blood ties required Koa to do what he could. His mother would expect no less. Old Hawaiians said, ho‘i hou i ka mole—return to the taproot.
The following morning, Koa accepted McKenzie’s proposal.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“YOU’VE BEEN RATTLING cages, my friend.” Zeke Brown greeted Koa with a grin. From anyone else, it might have been a rebuke, but Zeke delighted in investigating politicians. He held an old-fashioned view of government service. To him, government employees worked for the people who elected them, not the other way around. He hated politicians who augmented their compensation at the public trough. His credo was simple: If you weren’t willing to work for your public salary, you shouldn’t take the job.
Koa wasn’t surprised Zeke knew of his visit to Cheryl Makela. Zeke’s tentacles extended into every aspect of county government. “You heard?”
“Have I heard?” Zeke chuckled. “That weasel press jockey in the mayor’s office screamed at me before I told him to stick it up his ass. You’re not the most popular boy in town.”
In provoking Cheryl Makela, Koa hoped to stimulate a reaction. He’d intended to stir the pot and see what scum floated to the top. But he hadn’t expected to excite the big shots in the mayor’s office. “What’d you tell him?”
“That you were helping me with a grand jury investigation.”
“You’ve convened a grand jury?”
“Sure. The public expects me to investigate the KonaWili disaster. “And besides—” Zeke grinned—“I’ve been looking for an excuse to put Cheryl Makela under oath for a decade. She’s the queen bee of our rotten political land-use game.”
Koa nodded. “Based on what she refused to answer, you’ve got plenty to work with.”
“Let me guess.” Zeke cupped his hands like two bowls. Hefting one hand, he said, “She refused to say how much money she put into the Hualālai Hui and how much was carried by Gommes.” Lifting the other hand, he added, “She refused to admit to sub-huis or identify the participants.”
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“No.” Zeke smiled. “But I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t asked, and I knew she wouldn’t answer.”
For the umpteenth time since he’d made chief detective, Koa thanked the gods for the protection Zeke Brown afforded him. He was the longest-serving elected public official in the county. He’d prosecuted mayors and police chiefs. Nobody crossed Zeke Brown. And his intercessions had saved Koa’s job more than once.
“You’re going to put her in front of a grand jury?”
“Yeah,” Zeke responded, “but not yet. I want you to dump some more kiawe wood in the imu before we roast this pig.”
“Let me fill you in on my latest discovery.”
Zeke pounded his desk when Koa described his visit to West Hawai‘i Concrete and the discovery of the change order.
“That certainly puts the spotlight on the DOE,” Zeke responded. “I’ve been on the horn to the state attorney general. The governor is pissed at Tanaka. He wants the state AG to run the KonaWili investigation, but the Big Island police have jurisdiction and, politically, the governor won’t spend the capital to overrule the mayor.”
“I get the jurisdiction angle, but why does Tanaka want to keep this lava ball? You’d think he’d be happy to dump it off on the state.”
Zeke put on his schoolmarm’s face and asked, “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know, Zeke, I’d like to think it’s politics. You know, Tanaka trying to blame the governor, and Māhoe laying it off on Tanaka, but my gut tells me Tanaka’s got skin in the game. I’d guess he’s protecting Makela.”
Zeke nodded. “Māhoe and Tanaka hate each other, so it could be politics. On the other hand, like you, I’m betting Makela is dirty.”
“And if she’s dirty, could she be the mayor’s bag lady?” Koa asked.
“That would explain why Tanaka wants to keep the investigation and why Māhoe is hot to take control.”
Koa nodded. “Fucking politicians.” He hesitated. “Present company excluded.”
“No offense taken,” Zeke said. “All this political maneuvering does have some advantages.”
“Like what?”
“The state AG seems to think Na‘auao might have something to say about Makela and suggested that you interview our DOE chief.”
Koa had been wondering how he was going to get to the state-level officials who’d approved the KonaWili site, executed the construction contract, and signed off on the change order. Still, the suggestion, coming from the state AG, bothered him. “Is somebody trying to manipulate the investigation?”
“Maybe, but we still need to hear what Na‘auao has to say.”
“Agreed. What should I focus on?”
“The location, the price, and the change order. If you look at the subdivision plot, the location of that school up at the top of the property is damned odd. Then, the state paid a premium price—on a per-square-foot-basis almost 40 percent more than the statewide average. And this change order is downright wacky. I mean, does anyone really think Witherspoon forgot to design in the standard environmental improvements? He wasn’t senile. The discovery of Pele’s volcanic vent was the only environmental change. And, of course, you’ll need to hear what she has to say about Makela.” Zeke grinned like a wolf, contemplating dinner.
Koa prepared for his interview with Francine Na‘auao throughout the forty-five-minute plane ride to O‘ahu. Na‘auao had run the DOE for nearly a decade. In a state known for its poorly performing public schools and a controversial public education structure—Hawai‘i had the only statewide single district public school system in the nation—her longevity marked Na‘auao as a consummate political insider. Making matters worse, as a protégée of Governor Māhoe, Koa had to handle her with kid gloves. He was nevertheless determined to dig beneath the surface. Na‘auao had approved the change order, increasing the cost of the school building by more than 11 percent. She couldn’t have done so without a reason. But what reason could she possibly give? Surely, she wouldn’t admit to covering u
p a volcanic vent.
A detective from the Honolulu police picked him up at the airport and drove him to Queen’s Medical Center. He’d allowed extra time to visit his brother in the hospital and found his way to the ICU. He stood just outside his brother’s cubicle. He’d seen dozens of crime victims in hospital emergency rooms, but it still shocked him to see Ikaika, his head covered in bandages and hooked up to more inputs, outputs, IVs, and monitors than a computer motherboard. Their mother, Māpuana, sat with her left hand on Ikaika’s left arm, whispering a traditional Hawaiian health prayer. Mai ka piko o ke po‘o a ka poli o ka wāwae, a loa‘a mai nā kihi ‘ehā o ke kino.
Although unskilled in the art of the kahuna lā‘au lapa‘au, the traditional Hawaiian healer, Koa knew that the left, or feminine, side represented the inner body. Māpuana was passing her inner strength to Ikaika to replace the mana, his personal power, that the tumors had drained from him. Māpuana had also placed ti leaves, ‘ōlena, and other healing plants on Ikaika’s bed. Such materials were surely prohibited in the ICU, but Koa doubted that the staff had the fortitude to confront his mother.
While Koa stood watching, his sister, Alana, came up behind him. “Ikaika looks so helpless like that.”
It was probably the nicest thing she’d said about Ikaika in a decade. Koa turned to face his sister, taking in the deep purple circles under her eyes, and putting his arms around her. Her hug was so tight, it conveyed her desperation. “How long has he been out like that?” Koa asked.
“Since the surgery. The nurses keep saying he’ll wake up, but it hasn’t happened.”
Māpuana heard them talking and looked up. “Koa, my keiki, come sit.” She patted the chair next to her, the one Alana had been using, but Koa moved to the other side of the bed and took Ikaika’s limp hand in his own. Looking down, he saw only the baby brother he’d tickled and taught to play hide-and-seek. All of the acrimony between them faded into the background, and he said, “Hang in there, tough guy. We’re rooting for you.”
