After work, still juggling two women uneasily in his mind, Kawika called Patience to tell her he’d return to South Kohala in a day or two. Then he joined Carolyn for dinner again at Café Pesto on Hilo’s waterfront. As they arrived the sagging black sky finally ruptured. The clouds disgorged themselves and rain fell hard, hard enough to break the bones of Hilo. Kawika and Carolyn watched from the café window, transfixed. However familiar, the sight always filled him with awe. But this time what struck him was the contrast with South Kohala, where what falls hard is sun, and it falls on flesh.
27Hilo
Kawika spent the night at his own house, alone, and slept deeply. Rested and energized the next morning—and trying to tell himself the prospect of seeing Patience had nothing to do with it—Kawika went to work early and made calls to South Kohala, preparing for his visit. He called Tommy first.
“So, Tommy,” he said, “you know some guys there in Waimea, want to hunt on KKL land?”
“Yeah,” said Tommy. “They call themselves tenants—hoa‘āina tenants. Hawaiian word. ‘Traditional land rights,’ I guess you’d say.”
“Any of ’em Waimea police?”
“A few.”
“You?”
“No way.”
“You hunt, don’t you?” Kawika asked.
“Yeah, but I hunt for meat. I’ve got a family and a freezer to fill. I don’t hunt for money.”
“So you do know these guys.”
“I see what you’re saying. Should have thought of it myself. Okay, I’ll check ’em out. Anything else? Need a car?”
“No, but I do need Frank Kimaio’s number, if it’s handy.”
“No problem: 555-8998.”
“Easy to remember,” Kawika commented.
“That’s what Terry said too,” Tommy replied.
Next Kawika called Kohala Kats. A woman answered, “Aloha. Kohala Kats.”
“Aloha. This is Detective Kawika Wong calling from Hilo.”
“Right. Nice try.”
“Excuse me?” Kawika said.
“Right, you’re Detective Wong—and I’m Queen Emma.”
“Actually, I am Detective Wong. Who are you, when you’re not Queen Emma?”
The line was silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said at last. “I’m Malia Evans. I was just reading about you in the paper. I can’t believe it’s you calling.”
“Yesterday’s paper,” Kawika said. “Old news, eh?”
“Today’s paper, over here,” she replied. “Might be yesterday’s news in Hilo. We’re on island time here.”
“Well,” Kawika said, “don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“I don’t believe anything I read in the paper. And you didn’t shoot that couple up in Waimea, did you? I bet someone else did that.”
“Correct,” he replied. “Look, Ms. Evans, I’m trying to reach Jason Hare. He works for you, right?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t he work for Kohala Kats?”
“Oh, he did for years, but not much this year. Did a little work at the Mauna Kea a while back—just a couple of mornings. Hasn’t been around since.”
“The Mauna Lani, you mean.” And she must mean nights, not mornings, he thought.
“No, the Mauna Kea. Not the Mauna Lani.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“But he brought you a check from the Mauna Lani—from Patience Quinn?”
“Nope,” said Malia Evans with a laugh. “That came in the mail, plain envelope, address on the check. I’m just writing her a thank-you. Jason Hare brings me a check, I’d remember it—let me tell you. I will say, the man absolutely loves cats—almost a fanatic—and he’s very gentle with them. So I’m quite fond of him, really. But I don’t think he’s ever had two nickels to rub together.”
“Any idea how I can find him, then?”
“Simple. Just drive Highway 19—the Queen K nowadays. Silly, isn’t it, naming highways for Kamehameha’s wives? Good thing we’ve got a lot of ’em. Anyway, Jason’s out there all the time. Can’t miss him. Guy in a loincloth—or just a Speedo, some days—walking along with a tall staff like some lost prophet, and brown as a coconut.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. A colorful guy, it seems. Though he was a bit better dressed, the night I met him. And by the way, since you’re in Kawaihae, do you know Peter Pukui, by chance?”
“Not by chance—by rescuing his cats. He’s a total cat abuser. The worst. We’ve been rescuing Peter’s cats for years—Jason Hare helped us with that in the past. Jason even reported Peter to Animal Welfare. Newspaper says you’re persecuting Peter. Go ahead and persecute him, I say. But no one’s seen him lately. Not his girlfriend either. Melanie Munu. Sometimes she hangs out with him, feeds his cats. But lately we’ve been going over there and feeding them ourselves. She’s not around, and neither is Peter. I’ve half a mind to rescue this bunch of cats too.”
Kawika called Dr. Terrence Smith next. His assistant explained it was Dr. Smith’s day off. “You could try him at the museum,” she offered. “North Kohala Historical. He volunteers there on his days off.”
“Thanks. If I don’t reach him, have him call me, okay?”
“Okay, I will. And you be careful now, yeah? We’ve all seen the paper. We’re worried about you.”
Next, Kawika dialed Frank Kimaio, the retired FBI agent.
“Detective Wong?” Kimaio answered on the third ring, without saying hello.
“Mr. Kimaio?” Kawika asked, a bit puzzled. “Did Tommy tell you I’d be calling?”
“He did.”
“Well, then … I’d really like to pick your brain about Ralph Fortunato. I understand you headed the mainland investigation.”
“Not exactly headed. But I did work on it, the investigation of Fortunato’s resort.”
“Right. Well, I’m coming to South Kohala today. Could I meet you on the way, take you to lunch?”
Kimaio took a moment to reply. “Look, Detective,” he said, “you’re sort of conspicuous today—the newspaper over here, you know. Me, I’m retired FBI. I moved here to be inconspicuous. Sent a lot of guys to prison. I don’t want to have to start watching my back.”
“Oh,” Kawika said. “Of course. I understand. Should have thought of that. I haven’t actually seen the paper over there, just yesterday’s Hilo paper.”
“Was it bad in Hilo?”
“Bad enough.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea,” Kimaio said. “You driving over the Saddle Road?”
“Yup.”
“Your car unmarked?”
“Yup. It’s
