“Next,” she continued, “it wasn’t customary to kill the victim on the altar. The victim was killed somewhere else. In battle, maybe. Remember Kamehameha sacrificing his cousin? They killed him on the beach. Killing wasn’t the sacrifice. ‘Sacrifice’ isn’t even the right word. ‘Offering’ would be better. The victim’s body was offered on the altar as food. Kū wanted something to eat. Some priests, the kahuna, believed Kū preferred the body cooked, but he didn’t care how the victim died.”
“Kū didn’t require a spear through the heart?”
“He sure didn’t. And that’s the last thing. That spear. It’s really old, Kawika. It’s valuable. I bet you’re going to be able to trace it.”
“We’re trying,” he said. “Got calls in to the museums, all the dealers.”
“Good,” she said. “But that’s not the main thing. It’s an ihe, Kawika—a javelin. A combat weapon. No kahuna would use it to make an offering. The old Hawaiians kept a pretty strict separation of priests and chiefs. Don’t forget, the kahuna worshiped Captain Cook; they thought he was Lono. But the chiefs didn’t—they killed him.”
“So why did priests make sacrifices to a war god?”
“Well, everyone worked for the king. The priests made offerings to Kū so the chiefs could bring the king a great victory. But the priests did it on their terms.”
“And the javelin doesn’t fit?”
“None of it fits,” she replied. “The victim was murdered on the spot, with a javelin, and the spot itself isn’t a temple and it’s not an altar. As I said, it’s culturally illiterate.”
“Thank you,” Kawika said. “But still, someone killed this guy with an old Hawaiian spear—a hard weapon to find. The victim was developing a resort, and they killed him in a resort. And they did it on—I don’t know, a spot—that looks like some sort of ancient Hawaiian something. Not an easy place to kill someone. Hard to get to. Hard to get away from. Risky.”
“So you’re saying …?”
“Someone wanted to make a statement, not just kill him. And not all killers are literate, much less culturally literate. The HHH folks? They’re probably not scholars. They’re activists.”
“Well,” said Carolyn, “I’m just saying, if HHH did kill him, they’re culturally illiterate. And why would they kill him at a resort anyway? Why not kill him at Kawaihae, at the Pu‘ukoholā Heiau? That would be more authentic. Safer too.”
“Carolyn,” he replied, “if we’d found him there, right where they hold their meetings, not a mile from Peter Pukui’s house, who would we suspect?”
Carolyn thought for a moment. “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” she said. “You think HHH took the trouble to kill Fortunato with a spear, on a golf course, in a resort, so that you wouldn’t suspect them?”
“Maybe.”
“Why wouldn’t they just throw him off a cliff?”
Not a bad question, Kawika thought.
20Hilo
“How you feel depends on what you’re thinking.”
Kawika’s mother had taught him that as a boy. He remembered it on the road downtown after seeing Carolyn at the University. Because Kawika felt maytagged.
Maytagged: dumped hard by a big wave, tumbled helplessly beneath the surface, thrown forward and over and spun sideways, astonished that the tumult isn’t temporary, doesn’t end, just keeps going. It’s like being churned inside a giant machine, a Maytag washer, long enough to think about it, long enough to get scared.
Kawika knew why he felt maytagged: he was thinking about too much at once. About Carolyn, whom he’d just visited but to whom he hadn’t confessed—not yet. About Patience; about his night and morning with her; about the mess he’d created. About the murdered Joan Malo. About Fortunato, a murder victim he couldn’t help disliking strongly, unprofessional though that might be. About whoever killed the man—Peter Pukui? Someone else?
A few days earlier Kawika’s life had felt integrated and unperturbed. Now it felt kaleidoscopic. A young woman’s death—not at his hands, but fairly laid at his feet. Another woman in her other woman’s bed, a stranger really, a temptation he should’ve resisted. And because of that, the sudden upheaval of his settled Big Island existence, just when he’d finally fitted in again, at home in his skin and his own land, with his own Hawaiian girlfriend. Now everything seemed spilled, stomach-turning, in full turmoil. Maytagged.
He shook his head, decided to think about something else. He thought about seeing Tanaka and began to feel better.
Tanaka had just returned from the morgue when Kawika reached the station.
“We found cuff marks on the latest Shark Cliff guy,” Tanaka said, “but no cuffs.” Clapping Kawika on the shoulder, Tanaka changed subjects. “So, ready to talk?”
Kawika wanted to talk about the cuff marks, but Tanaka had already changed focus. “I’ve had enough Shark Cliff for today,” he said. “Let’s tackle your new novel, Murder at the Mauna Lani.”
They sequestered themselves in a meeting room with a large whiteboard. “Couple of things first,” Tanaka said. “Waimea cops called. They found Fortunato’s car at the Beach Club at Mauna Lani.”
“Interesting,” Kawika said. “That’s not too far from where he died—a quarter mile at most. Could have walked that distance barefoot. Might explain the grass stains and cinders on his feet.”
“Also,” Tanaka continued, “one of the FBI guys who investigated Fortunato on the mainland? A guy named Frank Kimaio. He retired here, lives up on Kohala Mountain Road. The agent in Seattle, we were on the phone, I was asking about Fortunato’s earlier resort thing in Washington, and he kinda threw that in there.”
“Great, let’s have Tommy talk to this Mr. Kimaio,” Kawika said. “We get done here, we can call Tommy.”
“Speaking of calls,” Tanaka said, “you got one too. From Patience Quinn.”
“Patience Quinn?”
“Yeah,” Tanaka said. “Woman who found the body. You interviewed her.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’m just surprised she called.”
“Said she has new information, thought it would interest you. About a couple who lives at the Mauna Lani. At the Cape. Really rich, right?”
“Yeah. A couple, she said? I wonder what she’s got?”
“Don’t know. We’ll call her later, okay?”
“I’ll do it,” Kawika said.
“We can do it together,” Tanaka said.
