1 Murder on Moloka'i Read online

  Now by this converted theater I saw no cab and no woman who looked like she came from Boston. I surveyed the surrounding businesses: Leong’s Dry Cleaning, Taka’s Antiques, and C & K Diner, where a buck fifty buys you a Spam musubi plate lunch. Near C & K’s take-out window I spotted two more homeless men leaning on grocery carts piled high like container ships with worldly belongings, but no client.

  Unlocking the filing cabinet that displays my tarnished longboard trophy, I pulled from the bottom drawer a pair of old Levi’s I wear for dirty work and a Town & County Surf t-shirt. My soaked clothes–underwear and all–I shed into a heap on the dusty linoleum. From the back of the file drawer I reached for a moldy hand towel and dried myself, hoping the woman from Boston didn’t show while I was stark naked.

  Three taps sounded at my door.

  IV: Chapter Three: Paniolo Johnny Kaluna

  I would be remiss if I did not provide at least one example of how editors can enormously improve a book. My wife, Charlene, read and commented on every draft. And Kirsten Whatley tightened the book into its final form. The finished product is much better because of their efforts, and those of specialist editors. Ku‘ualoha Ho‘omanawanui, Puhi Adams, Rodney Morales, and Scott Burlington, as mentioned in the acknowledgements, played a significant role in giving Murder on Moloka‘i an authentic island feel. Ku‘ualoha, an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa who holds the only faculty position dedicated to Hawaiian literature anywhere in the world, transformed the character of Johnny Kaluna. In chapter three when Kai meets Johnny, we are introduced to a genuine paniolo, or Hawaiian cowboy, who looks, speaks, and acts the part. It was not so in the first draft, before Ku‘ualoha’s magic touch. As can be seen in the excerpt below, the panilolo’s name was originally Moreno, not Kaluna, he spoke in “proper” mainland English, rather than island pidgin sprinkled with Hawaiian phrases, and though he looked like a cowboy, he lacked such island touches as a red palaka shirt and skin tanned reddish brown like koa. Notice too that Kai himself spoke in formal English, rather than responding in kind to Kaluna’s pidgin. The result was a formal and stilted exchange between the two men that Ku‘ualoha helped to make more authentic. Mahalo!

  “Mr. Moreno?” I called.

  No answer.

  I looked at my watch. It was 7:30, the time we had appointed for our meeting. I heard a vehicle and walked back outside. It was a Jeep pickup, the bed filled with hay bails. A mustached man in a cowboy hat climbed out, skin tanned deeply like cherry wood. His jeans were worn white around the thighs–not fashionable faded, but really worn. A pair of riding boots and a western shirt with pearl buttons rounded out the effect. This man looked like a paniolo. We stood in the mist and introduced ourselves.

  “Mr. Cooke?” He extended his right hand, his dark brown hair curling under the brim of his cowboy hat.

  “Mr. Moreno, where are your mules?” I shook his hand.

  “Gone to a west Moloka‘i ranch,” he said. “Gone until the lawyers draw up new papers.”

  “New papers?”

  “Liability waivers for our mule riders to sign.” His almond eyes looked wary. “Ever since that accident we’ve been temporarily shut down.”

  “Too bad,” I said.

  “Are you a lawyer, Mr. Cooke?”

  “No, I’m a private investigator,” I replied. “Don’t worry, my client has no interest in suing your tour company.”

  Moreno seemed relieved. “There’s not much work for me while we’re shut down, except driving to the ranch twice a day to feed and water the mules”

  “Tell me about the accident.”

  “It was the worst day of my life,” Moreno said. “The young lady, Sara, she fell about three hundred feet into a gorge. There was a doctor in the party, but he couldn’t do a thing. Not even help Coco.”

  “Who’s Coco?

  “A mule.” Moreno’s eyes glistened. “A damn good mule. Not like him to stumble. I buried him right by the trailhead. You’ll see the wooden cross when we hike down.”

  “You buried the mule yourself?”

  “He was my favorite.” Moreno blinked, then rubbed his moist eyes. “Come on in.” He motioned me toward the barn. “I’ll get you the doctor’s name and the others.”

  We walked into the tack room with the saddles and blankets and harnesses hanging on the wall. From the drawer of a small, dusty desk Moreno pulled out a guest book and opened it to a date in early September.

  “This is the day,” he said. “There were four riders besides the young lady who died. None of them seemed to know the others. One was the doctor. And there were two more men and a woman.”

  “May I copy their names and addresses?”

  “Sure.” He handed me the dusty book. The doctor whose name was Benjamin Ganjo kept his office in Honolulu. The woman, Heather Linborg, lived on Maui. The second man, Milton Yu, gave an address on the Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island. And the third man, Emery Archibald, listed only “Island Fantasy Holidays, Glendale, CA.”

  “What can you tell me about these four people?” I asked Moreno.

  “That was a month ago,” he said. “Usually I forget customers’ faces after that long, but the accident, you know, kind of riveted me.”

  “I understand.”

  “The woman, Heather, was a nice-looking blond. Very nice. And young. In her twenties.”

  “Did she talk much with Sara?”

  “Not that I recall,” Moreno said. “Heather talked mostly with the local Chinese man, Milton Yu.”

  “What about this Archibald? Did he talk with Sara, or act strangely around her?”

  “Oh, he talked with her, I’m sure. But no differently than anybody does on a mule ride. Just visited with her, if you know what I mean.”

  “And the doctor?” I asked.

  “Same thing,” Moreno said. “That Dr. Ganjo was on the heavy side. I gave him my biggest mule.”

  “Did the doctor make any attempt to help Sara when she fell?”

  “There was no use,” the mule guide said. “We couldn’t reach her in the gorge.”

  I pulled out the photo Adrienne had given me of J. Gregory Parke and showed it to Moreno. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Moreno’s almond eyes squinted. He twitched his mustache. “Yeah, I’ve seen him.”

  “You have?” I was stunned, but tried not to show it.

  “He rode to Kalaupapa a day or two before the accident.”

  “Can you verify that?”

  “By the guest book.” He turned back one page to the day before Sara’s fatal ride. “Here are the names. You can look for yourself.”

  Sure enough, on the list was “J.G. Parke.” Could Adrienne have a case after all?

  “Can you remember anything about Parke?” I asked Moreno.

  “He’s in his fifties, I’d say. Turning grey. Quiet. He seemed preoccupied,” the mule guide said. “Didn’t take much interest in the tour.”

  I put away the photo. “Can we hike down the trail now to see where Sara fell?”

  “Sure.” He took out a cash box. “Do you want to pay now or later?”

  “Now is fine.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him some bills.

  “Sorry, I have to ask,” Moreno said, “but I’ve got few customers since the accident, except hikers.”

  “No Problem.”

  V: Chapter Ten: Mauna Kea Takes Kai’s Parents

  In chapter ten Kai interviews witness Heather Linborg on Maui, then flies to the Big Island along the Hāmākua Coast to interview another witness, Milton Yu. Through the airplane’s windows the PI watches Maui’s Hāna Highway curve along the coast, reflects on his conversation with Lingborg, and then, as the Big Island comes into view, he spots Mauna Kea, Hawai‘i’s tallest mountain, which he describes as “cloud shrouded and dominating.” In the earlier versions of the novel, seeing Mauna Kea prompted him to reflect on the accidental death of his parents on this mountain and how it changed his life. This excerpt con
tains details of Kai’s childhood and his motivation for becoming a private detective—namely, to vindicate his father from causing the accident.

  (cut from)

  ten

  At a few minutes past noon the Hilo-bound DC-9 rumbled over Kahului Bay. As the crowded liner banked southeast along Maui’s Hāna coast, I had a moment to contemplate Heather Linborg. I couldn’t get over her lie. Or her gold bikini.

  Below the climbing jet, fabled Hāna Highway coiled along the twisting coastline. Deep emerald canyons of bamboo, breadfruit, and flowering ōhi‘ā were pierced by silver dagger waterfalls. I could see a sampling of the winding road’s six hundred curves and hairpins, and fifty-odd bridges, knowing them all first-hand. As we glided over this craggy, foam-washed coast with majestic Haleakalā towering in the distance, I wondered if the Maui masseuse had served Parke in her professional capacity–a mere rub down?–or in some more personal way. That she knew him at all seemed ominous.

  Remote Hāna Bay soon drifted under our wings, a tranquil azure pond bringing an end to Maui. Then nothing but sea green, a shade darker than Heather Linborg’s eyes. The plane crossed the twenty-mile ‘Alenuihāhā (“great billows smashing”) Channel to the island of Hawai‘i. As I recalled from a boat passage once with my parents, this channel between Maui and its southern neighbor can get pretty wild. Today’s flight was smooth. Not a single bump.

  Soon the Big Island, twice the land area of all other Hawaiian islands combined, loomed ahead at its northern tip, the lush mountainous spine of North Kohala. The Maui masseuse slipped from my thoughts as we flew along Kohala’s windward coast. What a view! Over on the lee slopes, fleetingly visible through cotton white clouds, lay the rolling green pastures of Parker Ranch. Down among the coastal lava beds sprawled the ocean-front fairways and velvet greens of the Mauna Kea and Waikoloa golf resorts. And on the windward side, directly beneath us, soaring sea cliffs were pierced by more silvery cascades.

  As the jet descended south along the Hāmākua Coast, where soon I would interview Milton Yu, groves of kukui stood out like lime-green swatches against the darker green cliffs. The fire-orange flowers of African tulip trees dotted the landscape like a pointillist’s canvas. Above these flamboyant trees rose Mauna Kea. I grimaced at the sight of this tallest mountain in Hawai‘i–cloud-shrouded and dominating.

  Mauna Kea, you see, took my parents’ life. Their light plane crashed into the mountain when I was only eight. I can never look at Mauna Kea without thinking of them and how my fate suddenly and irrevocably changed. The accident report blamed pilot error. I never believed it.

  The sky had been clear. My father was an experienced, careful pilot who knew every inch of Big Island terrain. Though the report exonerated the airplane’s manufacturer and the firm from whom he leased it, I suspected some of the “investigators” had ties to these two entities. In any case, I received compensation from neither. A modest life insurance policy became my only legacy.

  I had been an only child. Now I was alone. My cousin Alika’s family, the Kealoha’s of the North Shore, welcomed me into their ohana and treated me as their own. But since I was a shy boy raised in town and accustomed to the hallowed halls of Punahou, I had trouble adjusting to an unfamiliar public school. My grades fell. Through lengthy family negotiations I was too young to understand, it was decided that I would attend private school in California and live with the family of my father’s brother, Orson T. Cooke of Pasadena.

  I grew up with three sandy-haired cousins who looked like my brother and sisters. No one outside the family’s rambling Tudor on a hillside cul-de-sac off Orange Grove Boulevard knew I was part Hawaiian. I spoke little pidgin. I shed my “Island-style” ways. Gradually I became a Californian.

  Ironically, it was California–not Hawai‘i–that kindled my passion for surfing. Cousin Matthew Cooke and I haunted our favorite spots: Malibu, Rincon, County Line, Trestles. After graduating from preppy Ridgecrest Academy, we trekked south to California Surfside College–a liberal arts school perched on Sunset Cliffs at Point Loma–boasting four of the best breaks in San Diego. At “Cal Surf,” as students fondly dubbed our college, we clocked more hours in the water than in the classroom. I had a blast– until my father’s life insurance ran out.

  I quit the pricy beach-side school (against my Uncle Orson’s advice) and joined the Army, after a recruiter promised me duty at Fort DeRussy in Waikīkī. Shibai. Didn’t happen. I spent my whole tour stateside. When discharged I returned to San Diego intending to complete my degree with Army money at Cal Surf. Instead I partied and rode waves. Cousin Matthew, by then a management trainee at Acme Casualty, landed me a job as a claims adjuster.

  I never did finish college. Claims work taught me volumes, however, about human nature. I witnessed more half-truths, deception, and outright fraud than I care to remember. This glimpse into the darker side prepared me–better than any classroom–for my later occupation.

  People are like waves. Despite appearances, look out for what lies below.

  Insurance investigation sharpened my instincts for sham. When I finally returned to Hawai‘i I began gathering evidence on my parents’ accident. Someday I will put all the pieces together. Though the statute of limitations may have expired, though I may never win a dime from the guilty parties, at least I will vindicate my father. Anyway, nothing could compensate for what I lost.

  VI: Chapter Eleven: Toes on the Nose at Rock Piles

  Before meeting his client Adrienne Ridgely for drinks at sunset at the Halekūlani in Waīkikī in chapter eleven, Kai paddles out to a surf break called Rock Piles. He’s getting nowhere with the case at this point, or with his long-distance girlfriend, Niki, who lives in Los Angeles. Out in the water he’s able to sift through the various pieces of the puzzle, and to contemplate the sad state of his love life. As part of the original conception of the series, I’ve tried to include scenes in each book showing Kai surfing and reflecting on his cases, and his life. “Sherlock Holmes had his pipe: I have my surfboard,” says Kai in Murder on Moloka‘i. In the cut paragraphs below, while he does mention his client, a suspect he’s about to interview, and a previous case, he focuses mainly on surfing itself — its dangers and rewards.

  (cut from)

  eleven

  Sunday afternoon before meeting Adrienne I looked at dismal apartments for rent, made more dismal by the fact that Niki hadn’t popped into town for weeks. Later I tried calling her, but again got only her answering machine. Rather than break the good news that I might see her soon in Los Angeles, I decided to just drop in at her apartment in Marina Del Rey near the L.A. airport. If she was home, we’d have a surprise reunion. If not, the drive wasn’t much out of my way.

  Buoyed by the thought of seeing Niki I squeezed in a surf session before sunset at Rock Piles, offshore of the Ala Wai yacht harbor where I had tangled with that scurvy deadbeat, Leonard Souza. Rock Piles can be an especially good spot in summer–with hollow peaks and occasional tubes breaking over a shallow coral reef–but boards washed against the harbor’s lava rock jetty can end up in splinters, not to mention surfers who ride them.

  Surfing, like any sport, has its hazards. One wrong move on a winter swell at Waimea Bay, for instance, can ruin your whole day. The wave rider who wipes out on a smoking thirty-foot wall may stay under the white water for not seconds, but entire minutes. Or hours. The surfer’s body floats ashore, or is never seen again. It depends. No one knows exactly why the drowned ones disappear, except maybe the sharks.

  I was once asked to find the remains of such an unlucky waterman, a Californian reported missing after getting hammered one big December day at Waimea. His fractured board had rolled in, but not his corpse. It proved an eye-opening case, convincing this middle-aged longboarder to leave those North Shore titans alone.

  Straddling my board at Rock Piles, waiting for one of those lovely peaks to form up, I puzzled over the case of Sara Ridgley-Parke. So far, no witness had admitted to seeing Sara fall, though each was covering
up something. Only Archibald had been in a position to observe Sara’s plunge. Would the travel agent shed light on the mystery? In Los Angeles I would soon find out.

  Before long I spotted a clean set rolling in, swung my board around, and blissfully forgot Archibald. On the peaking left break, I planted a rail and turned hard to stay ahead of the curling lip. Trimming to a smooth plane, I cross-stepped forward gingerly, aping the tip-riding logo on my office door. Toes on the nose!

  Just as my pinkies reached the tip, my longboard suddenly pearled (nose-dived) and I flipped hulihuli, head over heels. My board shot tail-first from the soup like a missile. Fortunately, it didn’t hit me in the chops. I felt a big yank on my ankle as the ten foot leash snapped tight.

  My caroming surfboard and I were safe, spared today from the lava rock jetty. But I had taken an embarrassing spill. Especially for a former champion.

  Later I recouped. A few ripping good rides put me in the mood for dinner with Adrienne. At five o’clock I carried my board home, showered, dressed, and then walked back to the Halekūlani.

  VII: Chapter Twelve: Kai’s Shark Bite

  The centrality of surfing to his character is brought home through Kai’s frequent surf sessions, his surfboard always riding next to him in his car, and his using surfing as a metaphor for life and a way to solve problems and cases. But his ever-present badge of belonging as a surfer is the crescent of sixteen welts on his chest. He was attacked, as he tells us, one morning at Laniākea. A tiger shark bit him once and swam away. Kai unveils his shark bite in each book, typically in intimate moments. Below is one of those moments–cut from chapter twelve of Murder on Moloka‘i–in which Kai accompanies his client, Adrienne Ridgely, to her room after drinks at the Halekūlani Hotel. Following this is the sequel to the scene where he reminisces about his evening with her.