“Did you tell your husband?” Kawika asked. “About what happened in Tokyo, I mean?”
“No. I’ll never tell him. I’ve hurt him enough, telling him about Ralph.”
“Well, I understand, but—”
“I already told you,” she snapped. “My husband did not kill Ralph. He was on Moloka‘i.”
“What about Mr. Shimazu? He might have killed Ralph—he was here, right? And then he left.”
She shot him a withering look. “No,” she said. “Mr. Shimazu wouldn’t have any reason to kill Ralph. He was happy after that weekend. Very happy. He told Ralph everything could go on like before. He hugged Ralph, patted him on the back. Said Ralph had to bring me back in three months. He winked at me when he said it.”
“Ralph agreed?”
“To Mr. Shimazu’s face, yes. But he would never have done it. Never. Ralph said we’d bought ourselves time, we’d think of something.”
Kawika wondered if that was right, but with Fortunato dead it didn’t matter now. “Did you see Mr. Shimazu when he was here this time?” he asked.
“I always see him when he’s here. I’m the receptionist. But he kept it strictly professional. He didn’t even wink at me. Anyway, he was preoccupied with KKL stuff. He and Ralph left the office together every time he came by.”
“Still, Mr. Shimazu—”
“Let’s not kid each other,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You’ve got a murder to solve. I’ve got a different problem: I ruined my life. I ruined my husband’s life, my children’s lives. My problem is private. It’s personal. It has nothing to do with the murder, and neither does Mr. Shimazu. We all know who murdered Ralph: Peter Pukui or someone else in HHH. Now let me go home.”
“Wait,” Kawika said. “I still need to hear about your husband. What does he do, your husband?”
“Works for PCR—Polynesian Cultural Resources. He does Hawaiian cultural things at resorts, like build the oven to cook a pig or show tourists the petroglyphs. He does luaus too—plays slack-key guitar. He’s gone in the evenings. That’s what made it possible, the affair.”
“You said you have children?”
“Two keikis. Girl and a boy. My mom looks after them. In Waikoloa Village, right near us.”
“Forgive me,” Kawika said, “but—”
“I already explained,” she cut in. “I worked with Ralph. I saw him as powerful—smart, successful. In Hawai‘i, we’re taught to admire warrior kings. Well, he was a warrior king. I got to see him in combat. Being with him made me feel—what? Valuable, I guess. Fit for a warrior king. My husband isn’t a warrior. He’s not a king. He’s a nice Hawaiian man—happy, a good husband, a good father. He’s just not going anywhere. After we had the kids, it seemed like a dead end, like I’d die without having lived. I wanted to live. Now I just hope he’ll still have me.”
She paused, then asked quietly, “Do you have to interview him?”
“Don’t know yet,” Kawika replied. “Maybe.” It wasn’t true; he knew they had to interview her husband. He was just trying to be gentle.
She stood up, looking a bit ill now, and put on her sunglasses before walking a little unsteadily from the room and the building. Kawika followed. She tried to wave him off, walking toward her parked car, but he stayed with her. Her BMW convertible had a KKL logo on the door, a blue oval with three mountains, two of them snow-capped.
Kawika held her door. “You might want someone to help you through this,” he said. “Your doctor, your pastor—” But she got in her car, slammed the door, and drove off. Kawika stood and watched her go.
Then, from the edge of his vision, Kawika saw a shape: something black, accelerating. A pickup truck squealed along the pavement, rushing toward Joan Malo in her BMW. With a horrific bang and crush of metal the pickup rammed the BMW hard from behind. The convertible lunged down the street as if launched. It careened wildly, nearly overturning.
Then both vehicles stood still, not moving, silent except for hissing steam. The airbags had inflated, then collapsed. Kawika ran toward the car. Over his shoulder he saw Waimea police streaming from the station, shouting, running in the same direction.
A man with a bloodied face and arms got out of the pickup and staggered forward, leaning, falling back, but then walking forward again, moving toward the BMW, always toward the BMW.
“No!” Kawika yelled. He guessed this must be Kai Malo, Joan’s husband, betrayed and enraged. Kawika started running down the street toward the BMW. Running and yelling, running and yelling and seeing, Kawika felt nightmares begin searing themselves into his brain.
“Kai, no!” Behind him, Kawika heard Tommy and a chorus of Waimea cops running from the station and yelling, running and yelling. “Kai, no! Kai, no!”
Kai Malo had a gun. He pointed it through Joan’s window. Kawika couldn’t get there in time to stop him, and didn’t carry a gun himself, couldn’t shoot him. He saw Joan’s husband fire twice, pause, then fire again. Kawika was still running and yelling. Kai Malo turned to him—Kawika looked right into his eyes—and slowly lifted the gun to his own temple. Then he blew his brains out all over the BMW’s white fabric top.
13Waimea
Kawika spent much of his day giving a statement to the Waimea police. The crime had taken place before their eyes; they could handle that part. They just needed to know what Joan Malo had told Kawika, what it meant, how it might explain these shootings. The Waimea police handled the situation professionally. If they resented Kawika, the cop from Hilo, or felt any satisfaction at his distress, they didn’t show it.
Afterward Kawika went to the men’s room and threw up. Kneeling, he retched for a long
