5 Murder at Volcano House Read online

  I pick up Nicholas at the house off Kapahulu Avenue in Kaimuki he shares with another guy and a girl. I beep and he ambles out with an open beer in his hand. He’s got a big smile on his face, like he’s the happiest twenty-year-old on earth. Twenty year olds have a lot to be happy about.

  “Hey, Nick,” I say, as he steps into the car. “Leave the beer here.”

  “Shoots, Kai.” He sets the open bottle in the street. “Geev’ me five, braaahh!” The way he’s talking makes me wonder if he’s up to the task. But there’s no use doubting or turning back now. He’s my best shot.

  I give him a high-five and ask: “You ready?”

  “Right on!” he says. And then: “Thanks again, man, for fin-din’ my tools. I hope that guy that took ‘em gets twenty freakin’ years.”

  Nicholas is referring to the favor I did him. Somebody took a bunch of tools from his pickup truck. I tracked down the thief, tipped off HPD on where to find him, and recovered most of the tools. I doubt he’ll get much more than probation, but at least I nabbed him.

  Once Nicholas is buckled in, I aim my old Impala toward downtown Honolulu to a club called the Lollipop Lounge. En route I give Nick instructions.

  “Now here’s what you do,” I say. “You walk into the Lollipop, take a seat, and order a beer. Give the server your credit card when she brings the beer, and make sure you don’t leave without your signed receipt. Get the server’s name, if you can. I’ll come in after you, take another table, order a beer myself, and watch what happens. If you get carded, the game is up. We’ll try another club.”

  “Got it,” he says. “My kind of work!”

  When we get to the Lollipop Lounge, on a seedy block of Kona Street not far from Ala Moana Shopping Center, Nicholas follows my instructions to a tee. We’re in luck. Business is slow, late on a Saturday afternoon, and he doesn’t get carded. Nor does the server, a woman twice Nick’s age, notice that he’s already had enough to drink.

  We’re here for a reason. I’m tying to establish that this club serves minors and intoxicated patrons. The Lollipop is the last club that served Heather and Lindsay Lindquist the night they died. The Lollipop also served the driver of the car.

  Luck stays with us. I observe Nick, who is underage, being served when he is already clearly buzzed. I observe him using his credit card and getting a receipt. The receipt will have the time and date stamped on it and, of course, Nick’s own signature. For good measure, I also buy a beer and pay with my credit card, getting the name of the server from a tag that says STORMY, in the event Nick doesn’t.

  If the case goes to trial, and the Lollipop is a defendant, I may be deposed to present this evidence against their claims of not serving either the Lindquist twins or Fireball when they were intoxicated. If we’re really lucky the same server who served Nicholas was working the night the twins died.

  I let Nicholas stay for a second beer, while I nurse the one I ordered. At the bottom of his second, I gesture to him to meet me outside. He does and I drive him home. The beer he left in the street in front of his Kaimuki house is still standing there.

  “Take this inside,” I say to Nick. “T’anks, brah.”

  He picks up the bottle, nods, and wobbles into his house. I’d feel bad about contributing to the delinquency of a minor if it wasn’t in the interest of stopping the kind of illegal practices that get other minors killed.

  On the way back to my apartment on Ala Wai Boulevard my cell phone rings. It’s against the law in the City and County of Honolulu to talk on a hand-held cell phone while operating a motor vehicle. But when I think a call may be crucial sometimes I bend that law. If this one is from Denver I really need to take it. I look in my rearview mirror. An HPD cruiser, a white Crown Victoria, is right behind me. Damn! I don’t even look at caller ID. I let the phone ring.

  I can only hope if this call is from Ashley or Ethan that she or he leaves a message. One or both may have information that could help me wrap up the Pali case. But there’s nothing I can do now. That HPD cruiser is still riding my bumper.

  About a minute later my cell phone beeps. Phew. I have a new voicemail. Once I pull into my parking spot at the Edgewater I dial my voicemail and hear a young woman’s voice. Ashley at last?

  “Hello, Kai,” she says. A promising start. “May I see you on Monday?”

  Better than I expected. But the message doesn’t sound right. Why would Ashley ask to see me in my office? All I requested was a return phone call. Plus, the pleasant female voice sounds sophisticated, with none of the rising pitch at sentence endings—Like everything is a question, you know?—of Heather and Lindsay Lindquist’s other friends I’ve interviewed.

  Then comes the answer.

  “My name is Caitlin Ransom. I’m Rex Ransom’s daughter.”

  Rex Ransom’s daughter wants to see me?

  “I understand you were with my father at Hawai‘ i Volcanoes National Park. I would like to talk with you about . . .” she pauses, “his death.” Then an even longer pause. “Sorry, this is hard for me.”

  I try to remember if I have a box of tissues in my office. This could be a tearful meeting.

  Caitlin Ransom leaves her number in that lovely voice and says she hopes to hear from me soon. I call her back immediately. The phone rings and then her voicemail kicks in.

  “Aloha, Caitlin,” I say. “Kai Cooke. I’d be happy to see you on Monday. Around nine? If that’s okay, no need to call back. I’m very sorry about your father.”

  I hang up. And wonder.

  eighteen

  On Sunday morning we still have vog and I still haven’t heard from Denver. But I’m still stoked about scoring big with Nicholas at the Lollipop Lounge.

  I’m hanging out this morning at the Waikīkī Edgewater with the Sunday newspaper. When I was a keiki, Sunday was family day. My mom and dad and I would take a picnic to the beach, go for a hike or a drive, or visit my auntie’s ohana in Punalu‘u. It didn’t really matter what we did—as long as we did it together.

  I scan the front page. I don’t have a problem with being alone on Sunday. I can always go surfing. Never mind the scratch over my eye. Never mind doctor’s orders.

  I flip pages to the local news and see this:

  Geothermal CEO Overcome by Fumes

  Hilo: A Big Island medical examiner retained by the National Park Service has determined that former geothermal pioneer Rex Ransom, who died last Wednesday at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park, was overcome by toxic fumes before he apparently slipped into an active steam vent. Ransom, 70, was discovered in the vent last Wednesday. Volcanic fumes, said the examiner, Elton K. Tamura, MD, can be especially hazardous to the elderly, and to those with heart and lung conditions.

  The former CEO of Ransom Geothermal Enterprises, a previous heart attack victim, was by himself on the Crater Rim Trail near the Volcano House when the accident occurred. The day before, he and his wife attended the funeral of former Ransom Geothermal attorney Stanley Nagahara, who also died recently in the park. Another member of the firm, Karl Kroften, died two years ago near the Halema‘uma‘u Crater.

  The deaths of three people closely associated with the controversial geothermal project two decades ago in the Wao Kele O Puna rainforest continues to cause speculation among devotees of Pele that the legendary goddess of volcanoes had a hand in the deaths. The medical examiner’s report on the cause of Ransom’s death has not put this speculation to rest.

  Overcome by fumes? You’d think that would quiet talk of Pele’s revenge. Or would it? Was I right to think Ransom’s worst threat was the noxious air near the craters?

  Still no mention of the young woman in red who approached Ransom on the trail before he died. Or the warning note. Should I bring these up at my Monday meeting with Ransom’s daughter?

  The Volcano House case just won’t go away. Sitting around on Sunday morning doesn’t help. I slip on my board shorts and grab my wax. Hard to believe I haven’t been in the water since going to the Big Island. Sorry,
Doc.

  Then I get a better idea. Why not take the golden boy? If Maile will return my call. I grab my cell, punch in her number, and take a breath. She won’t answer. But I’m used to that.

  Her phone rings and then I hear her warm familiar voice: “Hi, you’ve reached Maile Barnes, tracer of missing pets. How can I help?” If she only knew.

  “Hi, Maile. It’s me again. Okay if I take Kula surfing? Been a while since the boy’s been in the water. Would you please give me a call? It’s now”—I check my watch—“almost nine on Sunday morning. I can pick him up in thirty minutes.”

  I could say a few other things about missing her and hoping she forgives me, but I don’t. She’s heard it all. I just say goodbye.

  Now the waiting game. I’m stuck until I hear from Maile.

  So I reflect on how I messed up. I finally reconnect with the woman of my dreams. And then the relationship goes up in smoke. I could blame it all on Madison Highcamp. She told Maile in a drunken phone call that she—Madison and I—were engaged. It was a lie, but the message stung. Maile had been burned before. She said never again. I tried explaining, but no dice. My mistake was not breaking up with Madison sooner. No, my mistake was dating the rich, idle, tycoon’s wife in the first place.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text message from Maile: “OK. Kula in yard.”

  That’s it.

  The ex-K9 cop is conveniently not around when I arrive at her Mānoa cottage. No surprise. Maile’s feelings run deep. She doesn’t get over things quickly. And I have to admit—I hurt her. Kula is like a child of divorce, and I have visitation rights.

  I walk around to the back yard and there he is—mane and feathering luminous in the sun. He glides toward me with the grace of a stallion. His blond lashes set off dark brown eyes. Golden boy. I open the gate and he sidles up to me.

  “Hey, Kula.” I stroke his sunny fur. “Let’s hit the waves.”

  He barks. His tail sweeps like a golden plume. He’s stoked already.

  From Maile’s carport I fetch the tandem board on perpetual loan from my cousin Alika and strap it on my roof racks. Then Kula and I head for the surf. The retriever sticks his head out the window—fleecy ears flapping in the breeze. He’s got a big goofy smile on his face.

  Dogs aren’t allowed in Waikīkī. That’s why we pull into Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park, to the uncrowded break called Flies. When Kula hears the waves crashing beyond the dune and smells the salt spray he goes ballistic. A boy after my own heart.

  I grab the board and Kula prances over the dune to Flies, at the Ewa end of the park. I set the big board in the water and Kula steps onto the nose. He knows his spot. I hop on behind him and paddle toward the break.

  The one and only surfer in the lineup this early on Sunday is gazing out to sea. In the distance he sees a set coming. He paddles for it. When the first shoulder-high roller reaches him, he’s on it.

  I paddle into the spot he leaves behind. Another wave rolls in. I swing the tandem board around and point the nose toward shore. The retriever hunches on the nose. I paddle until I feel the rush of water under the board. The nose drops and the board takes on the steep pitch of the wave. I pop up, turn right, and try to stay in front of the curling lip. Kula balances as I trim the board, keeping his paws spread. He barks and barks. What a rush!

  When the wave fizzles and the board glides to a stop, I swing the nose around to paddle back into the lineup. Kula suddenly pitches into the water. Oops. He swims back like nothing happened, and I help him on. He stands on the deck on all fours and shakes. The salty spray flies all over me.

  “Good boy, Kula.” I pat his wet fur.

  He barks again. And doesn’t stop until I paddle back into the waves.

  Kula’s a lucky dog. He almost died after his rescue. The guy who shot him, a pet thief named Spyder Silva, wasn’t so lucky. It’s a long story, but the short version is that the retriever was trying to protect Maile—held at gunpoint by Silva. When I saw Kula go down I pulled my Smith & Wesson on Silva. I had to answer to homicide detective Frank Fernandez. Ultimately Fernandez grudgingly agreed I’d acted in self-defense. I was in the clear. But Kula barely hung on. It took months for him to recover. Kula and Maile bonded around that experience. I should be glad she lets me take him surfing. But I’d be gladder if she’d talk to me.

  While we wait for another wave I wonder again what I can possibly tell Ransom’s daughter, other than I’m sorry for her loss. I wonder even more why she wants to see me.

  After Kula and I catch our fill of waves at Flies, I bathe, dry, and return him to Maile’s yard. Carrying cousin Alika’s tandem board back to her carport, I notice she’s home this time. I get bold and pop into her cottage to say thanks.

  Maile’s three cats curled up on rattan chairs—Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo—barely crane their necks. They know me. Lolo, the shy calico, doesn’t even bolt. Scattered about the living room are Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow tennis balls, braided tug ropes—and food and water dishes inscribed with his name. He lives like a prince here. Wish I did, too.

  Maile steps from her bedroom in her Nikes, running shorts, and sports bra. Seeing her tanned limbs and lovely curves again kind of smarts. I remember them too well.

  Her face used to light up when she saw me. Not today. She doesn’t offer me a chair. I ask how she’s doing. We exchange a few terse sentences.

  I can see we’re getting nowhere fast. I just say goodbye and head for the door. Then she surprises me.

  “Too bad about your client at Volcano House,” she says with some real feeling.

  I turn back. I’d like her to keep talking. “How’d you know he was my client?” I don’t remember telling her about Ransom. And my name wasn’t in the news reports.

  “Tommy,” she says. “We were talking about something else and it came up. I was interested because a guy I used to know dated Ransom’s wife, Donnie Lam, when he was at Stanford.”

  “Donnie went to Stanford?” That doesn’t sound right.

  “No, I don’t think so. She was living in the bay area and they met in a bar. He fell hard for her and was broken up when she married some old rich guy.”

  “You mean Rex Ransom?”

  “No. Apparently she was married before. When that husband died she returned to Hawai‘i and married Ransom. Or so I heard.”

  “Really?” Then as an afterthought: “Did Tommy tell you he’s getting married again?”

  “Yeah.” Maile shrugs. “I wished him luck. He’ll need it.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” At least we agree on something. So I get even bolder and ask: “How about dinner this week?”

  “We’ll see,” she says noncommittally.

  “I’ll call you.”

  I almost float to my car, so pumped up I nearly forget Maile’s curious story about Donnie being married before. Almost, but not quite.

  She’s been widowed by two rich old men?

  nineteen

  Monday morning that amber haze still hangs over Maunakea Street. I’m waiting for Rex Ransom’s daughter. I don’t have to wait long.

  She’s ten minutes early.

  When she strides in I recall seeing her at the Kīlauea Camp chapel—she and her dark, statuesque mother looking like a matched set.

  “Caitlin Ransom,” she says—pleasantly, but businesslike. She offers me her hand. I take it and she shakes mine vigorously. Shades of her late father?

  She’s got to be in her thirties, given her parents’ age, but she looks barely twenty-five. Grey eyes. Brown hair trimmed smartly to the shoulders. Little black dress flowing gracefully over her lean frame.

  “Kai Cooke,” I say. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to my client chair.

  She sits and adjusts her dress. Her stylish attire and fine features give her that cultivated look young women get in pricey private schools.

  “I’m sorry about your father.” I say the line I rehearsed in the surf.

  “I miss him,” she says. “Every day.” The
mist in her eyes tells me she means it.

  “Did you stay in Volcano after Stan Nagahara’s funeral?” Since Caitlin vaguely resembles the young woman in red I saw in the trail, I try to make a connection.

  “Mother did,” she says, “but I had to get back to school in Honolulu. I’m doing graduate work in anthropology.”

  “So you didn’t see or talk to your father the next day—the day he died?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “I wish I could have prevented what happened,” I start to explain. “You see, Donnie—”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.” She saves me from rehearsing the lamentable event. “And I’m grateful you agreed to see me.”

  “So how can I help you?” I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since her unexpected call.

  “My father’s death was no accident,” Caitlin announces.

  “You don’t accept the medical examiner’s report that he was overcome by fumes?”

  She slowly shakes her head. “Dad knew he had a heart condition and he knew the fumes around the volcanoes could be dangerous.”

  “A woman approached him on the trail moments before he died. I hesitate to say this, but she looked amazingly like one of Pele’s well-known guises.”

  “I know Donnie believes Pele took my father’s life,” she says. “But I don’t.”

  “Okay, let’s say for argument sake you’re right. If it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t Pele, how did your father end up in the steam vent?”

  She trains her grey eyes on me. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  I don’t know why I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I grab for any words I can find—and hope they won’t sound flip: “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Maybe Sonny Boy Chang? He assaulted my father two decades ago and has been in and out of prison ever since. He’s out now.”

  “I saw Sonny Boy at the funeral.” I recall the bearded, dread-locked man in camouflage. “If we strike out with him, then who?”