Killing native Miakamiians. The raw materials for Wally’s scheme.
“The first was the helicopter pilot. Dramatic, and it cripples the tourism for that disgusting blemish of an island and the man who owns it. I plan to keep going until all the islanders are dead. And eliminating the food source gets Lanakai out of Hawaii for the long haul. That makes your approach moot.”
And would make her moot, too, in relation to Mr. Yabuki. He knew her origin, her ethnicity. It could have come from a good guess on his part, or it could have been from real research, but regardless, he knew.
“So you intend to kill me.”
“It could have gone that way, yes. But lucky for you, Lanakai is making it interesting. We have a wager. If he wins, I promised him he would get you back in one piece. If he loses, he won’t. You have five minutes to finish what’s left on your plate, Ms. Mawpaw.”
“You are wrong, Mr. Yabuki.”
“And how is that?”
“You—the Yakuza—are animals. To kill innocent people, just to eliminate a competitor, is barbaric. But you can’t pull it off. You don’t know who or where they are.”
Kaipo was fishing. The more she could learn about his agenda…
Mr. Yabuki spoke in Japanese to an attending Yakuza who responded by removing his breakfast dishes from the table and replacing them with a folder. Mr. Yabuki pulled out some papers and put on a pair of glasses.
“If you live on Miakamii, or anywhere else in the islands”—he shuffled the paper pile—“I know where each of you calls home as of the last two U.S. censuses. All one hundred sixty of you. A matter of public record, as are the number of occupied households on your island. But the names and home addresses of all who migrated from the island are not. The census databases are, however, eminently hackable. Plus the genealogy services are wonderful tools. We connected the dots. The ones who died, the ones who stayed, the ones who moved elsewhere in the islands, and—”
Kaipo had moved to the U.S.
“And by process of elimination, the ones, if any, who have left Hawaii entirely. Lanakai is complaining, but we are giving him exactly what he wants, Miakamii livers, just accelerating the process a bit. As an aside, there was only one Miakamii native who left Hawaii. That, of course, is you. And, as quite the convenient circumstance for us, here you are in person.”
Mr. Yabuki barked an order and the chains and cuffs reappeared. Kaipo was brought to her feet and shackled again. What served as breakfast time was over.
“Get your rest, Ms. Mawpaw. I’m busy making arrangements with Lanakai regarding our bet. He doesn’t have a chance at winning you back, but I’ll keep you in good condition, and safe, so he thinks he does. Until your fate can be determined.”
25
“I can handle it, Philo sir. I need to see it.”
A drive to the Kauai police station in mid-afternoon. They hoofed it to the front entrance from the parking lot, Patrick still defending his decision to see a certain video after Philo had confirmed his eagerness.
“It’s why we’re here in the islands, sir. Vacation and discovery, sir.”
“Exactly, Patrick.”
“Mr. Logan said it could be him, sir.”
“That’s what he said on the phone, bud.”
“I can do this.”
“I think you’re good for it, Patrick.”
Philo’s opinion of Douglas Logan had changed. He knew him only as an ornery old bastard, but he was one helluva protective ornery old bastard when it came to that small speck of an island, him advocating for every islander that Miakamii had ever produced during his reign as its steward. He’d gone out of his way to engage the police chief regarding a fifteen-plus-year-old crime involving the homicide of a transplanted Miakamiian who was, quite possibly, Patrick’s father.
The police had footage from the shop’s security cameras. A street-corner grocery store. All the players in the video had been identified at the time of the crime. The shop owner was killed by one of his customers. It turned into an involuntary manslaughter conviction, the bullet meant for another customer. Logan recalled the circumstances and had the police find the evidence video. He then called Philo to relate what the video showed: “The shooting was witnessed by the store owner’s young son… pre-teen… both father and son were from Miakamii. It was an argument between two customers…”
Douglas Logan arrived after them, grunted an acknowledgment to the cop on duty at the front desk, and thumbed the waiting Philo and Patrick through the doors to the detectives’ bullpen. “Chief Koo will meet us in an interrogation room with the detective. Follow me.”
No half-measures when it came to Douglas Logan, everything at full speed including his stride, plus Logan had been through this already. They marched up an aisle and followed Logan into a hallway. Detective Ujikawa ushered them all into a side room.
“Sit here, gentlemen,” the detective said, directing them to the seats turned around to face front and center for the best view of an overhead flat screen. “Before we roll the footage, Chief Koo would like to say a few words.”
“Mr. Stakes.” The police chief’s crusty, pragmatic disposition rivaled Douglas Logan’s. Philo could see him alongside Logan on the beach in ten years, the two of them surfcasting while still sniping at each other. Also like Logan, underneath the chief’s hardened crust, his compassion showed.
“This is gruesome footage. There is no audio. The film is spliced together from three cameras, and is the film used during the original trial. It shows a homicide. The perpetrator was caught,
