Jarvis had told Kawika that it was here, at a leaning stone of the ancient priests below the main heiau, that HHH held its meetings. Kawika wanted to see the spot. So while driving with Tommy to Waimea for his interview of Joan Malo, KKL’s receptionist, Kawika suggested stopping at the heiau.
Tommy parked at the interpretive center. A sign explained the site’s history but didn’t mention human sacrifice, the reason for the heiau’s existence. At a spot well below the massive structure, down a narrow asphalt path, part of the leaning stone still stood, a natural obelisk broken into three pieces—from an accident, a sign said enigmatically. Countless feet had worn the earth around the stone into a circle; recent visitors had left offerings wrapped in long green leaves from ti plants. A warm breeze blew off the sea a few yards below. Little waves covered an adjunct to the main temple, a small underwater heiau where sharks once devoured the remains of sacrificed humans while the priests leaned against the stone and watched—another detail the signs omitted. Queen Emma had been born a hundred yards away. The signs did point that out.
Kawika wondered why the National Park Service chose to downplay human sacrifice here. To avoid unsettling tourists and their kids? Or to avoid unsettling Hawaiians?
“Nice spot for a meeting,” he said, gazing briefly out at the sea.
“A small meeting,” Tommy replied, looking down at the little circle of bare ground. He kicked the ground lightly with his toe. Kawika got the point: Tommy resented Kawika ditching him at the Mauna Lani, treating him like a chauffeur and making him wait with the car. Silently, Kawika resolved to treat him better.
They turned to study the huge heiau up the slope above them. The Park Service had painstakingly restored the walls, striking not just for their size but for their stones. The walls weren’t made of local rock. As Kawika knew, the priest had told Kamehameha the temple must be built of stones rounded by the sea. The closest source had been Pololū, on the windward shore of Kohala Mountain. Kamehameha issued commands, and a human chain had soon reached all the way from Pololū, with thousands of men, including the king, in a single line for miles and passing heavy stones from hand to hand. It must have made an astounding sight, Kawika thought.
Looking at the temple’s stones, those thousands of tons of sea-rounded rocks from Pololū, each having passed through the hands of Kamehameha himself, Kawika had a sudden inspiration—one that would have earned him an Iiko, iiko had Tanaka been there instead of Tommy.
“He’s at Pololū, I bet,” Kawika said aloud. “Peter Pukui. That’s where he’d go to hide. It’s the nearest good place. Way back in the Pololū Valley. That’s where we can catch him.”
12Waimea
“This is gonna be bad,” Tommy repeated as he and Kawika, sitting on an old bench in the shade, waited for Joan Malo outside the Waimea Police Station.
“She’s just late. It happens in Hawaii,” Kawika said.
“You don’t know her husband, Kai. But I do. We paddle together, down in Kawaihae.”
“He doesn’t have to find out. We’ll keep our mouths shut, okay?”
“Kai will find out.”
Finally Kawika allowed Tommy the last word: “This is gonna be bad.”
Apart from the caps he wore—today his cap read “Kawaihae Service”—Tommy dressed well for a plainclothesman. And Kawaihae Service, an old local gas station, had been out of business for years. To Tommy I’m an outsider in Kohala, Kawika thought. He’s letting me know it.
Joan Malo finally walked up to the police station: a young woman, small, with a strikingly lovely figure. She wore sunglasses and a head scarf with a brown tapa cloth pattern. Her face—what Kawika could see of it—appeared quite beautiful but unnaturally slack, as if she’d just come from the dentist.
She clutched a purse tightly and did not extend her hand to Kawika as he rose from the bench, nor did she acknowledge Tommy. They ushered her inside to a witness room. Kawika sat on the same side of the table and turned his chair to face her.
“Should I call you Joan or Ms. Malo?” Kawika began.
“Ms. Malo. And I’m not talking with him here.” She jerked her head toward Tommy. “Everybody knows everybody here. I’ll go to Hilo if you want. I’m not talking to the local police.”
Kawika looked at Tommy, then nodded. Tommy snorted and gave her an ugly look. He pushed back his chair, scraping it on the floor, stood up, and left. Kawika and Ms. Malo were alone.
“Okay,” Kawika said. “Why don’t you and I just talk? No recording, no notes. Just talk.” He pushed the recorder to the side, out of reach. “Maybe I’ll ask you for a statement later, okay? Something short, something we agree on. How would that be?”
She nodded downward, then didn’t raise her face.
“Ms. Malo, would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”
She reached up, jerked them off, set them on the table. Kawika waited. She finally lifted her eyes. She looked exhausted, burnt out.
“You want to know if I killed Ralph,” she said. “I didn’t. I was waiting to meet him that night. He never showed up. I didn’t know he’d been killed until the next day.”
“Actually, I—”
“And you want to know if my husband killed Ralph,” she went on. “He didn’t. He was on Moloka‘i with his family, got back the next morning. He didn’t know about me and Ralph. I just told him an hour ago. Right before I came here.”
“You told your husb—”
“I had to,” she said with a
