“Ah, that’s the fraud,” Kawika said.
“That’s just part of it,” Kimaio continued. “Ralph needs a golf course, even though he doesn’t need a ski slope. He plans to sell three hundred condos, plus home sites in five-acre lots. He can’t do any of it without water. Which is hard to come by there.”
“As I remember that valley’s bone dry,” Kawika remarked. “The mountains block the rain clouds. Same as South Kohala, right?”
“Right. And with water rights, it’s use it or lose it. Gotta maintain continuous usage or your rights lapse. Ralph’s buddy could never afford the manpower to irrigate. So he spends years running a scam—this is before Ralph. He keeps irrigation equipment in the fields, puts a little water through the sprinklers now and then. Folks can see he’s using water, but it’s a trickle compared to what he’s recording. He’s waiting for someone who wants to buy the land with the water rights. Fortunato comes along, they make a deal, and split the hidden profit.”
Kawika shook his head ruefully in admiration of the devious ways of crooks.
“Speaking of water,” Kimaio added. He dug in the backpack, came up with bottled water for them both. “Gotta stay hydrated out here.”
Kawika took a drink. “How come you couldn’t nail him?” he asked.
“Ah, that’s where it mattered, Ralph having an Athabascan great-grandmother—though an Aleut would have worked too. One guy in the valley knew what Ralph and his buddy were up to. Guy by the name of Jimmy Jack. An Indian. Married to another Indian—Madeline John.”
“Jimmy Jack and Madeline John? Great names for a couple.”
“Methow Indians, named for their dads. Jimmy hauled irrigation pipe around Rattlesnake Ranch. He knew the real water usage. Ralph’s buddy had to explain the scam to him, since the irrigation pattern made no sense.”
“Couldn’t Jimmy give you enough to nail them for fraud?” Kawika asked.
“Jimmy could but he wouldn’t,” Kimaio said. “It was a ‘White man speak with forked tongue’ problem. Jimmy was probably worried about his safety too. But more important to Jimmy was that the government cheated the Methows out of their reservation, back in the day. Gave it to some miners and crammed the Methows onto another Tribe’s reservation. So Jimmy hated the government and refused to testify. But at least he did finally spill, once Fortunato dynamited the old wintering shelter. Then Jimmy gave us the entire deal—the water rights, the kickback on the purchase price, all that. He said, ‘Ralph told me he’s got Native blood, but when he blew up the shelter, I knew he’s just another lying white man.’”
“But he wouldn’t testify?”
“Nope. Wouldn’t go that far. We told him we could make him. ‘You can make me show up,’ he said. ‘You can’t make me talk.’ We begged him to help us put Fortunato in jail. ‘Do it yourselves,’ he said. And after a while, we realized Jimmy was smart. We needed his testimony for the fraud case, but we didn’t need it for destroying a Native American cultural site. That was all public, admitted—right out in the open.”
“You couldn’t do the fraud case?” Kawika paused in his note taking.
“Nope. No independent records of the water usage. The inflated purchase price got treated as payment for the bogus water rights. Then the buddy invested—ha-ha—half the extra amount with Ralph, supposedly as initial capital for Ralph’s next project. Who knows? Maybe that launched KKL.”
“Makes sense,” Kawika said. “Must’ve needed some money before the Japanese backed him. But couldn’t you prosecute him for the dynamiting?”
“Couldn’t prove destroying the shelter was a crime,” Kimaio said. “Ralph had a report from some fancy consulting firm. Interior Department waffled; wouldn’t commission their own report. That fucked us. End of story.”
“Destruction of a Native site—so now history’s repeating itself,” said Kawika. “Besides Jimmy Jack, were there any people—”
Kimaio had started collecting the refuse from their lunch. “Oops,” he said. “Almost forgot. Brought you the paper.” He handed Kawika a folded newspaper from the knapsack. Kawika unfolded it and found, centered on the front page, his own official police photo—and superimposed over it, the red and white concentric circles of a target, with the bull’s eye on his forehead. “WONG TARGET” read the large headline. The photo caption read:
Native Group Sovereignty & Reparations blames Detective Wong of Hilo for shooting deaths of two Native Hawaiians in Waimea, persecution of a third. (Hilo Police Photo)
“Let’s save questions for another day,” said Kimaio as Kawika sat immobile with the newspaper, stunned. “Got a doctor’s appointment, and the fog’s coming in.” Indeed, beyond the kīpuka the sky had grown gray; light and temperature began to drop as mist spilled in over the edge. A rising wind stirred the tall koa trees. “Give me a head start,” Kimaio added. “I’m slowing down, these days.”
“We finish this another time?” asked Kawika, struggling to recover his composure, not ready to be alone.
“Sure,” Kimaio replied. “I’m around. Not going anywhere. But that’s pretty much all I know about Ralph Fortunato. Call me, if you want. You know my number.”
Halfway up the little track out of the kīpuka, Kimaio stopped and gave Kawika a crisp salute. “Good luck, Detective,” he said, and added, “And you should trace that spear. Seriously. You do that, you find out who owns it, you’ll find your killer. Someone will know.” Then he vanished into the mist. With dread, Kawika looked down again at the newspaper, at his picture centered in a target.
Kawika dropped to his knees and threw up all over a native shrub.
29Waikoloa Village
Kawika decided to check on Joan Malo’s mother again, and picked up Tommy first. The newspaper had made him suddenly crave some protection—at least some companionship. As they drove, he and Tommy discussed the case. Peter Pukui and Melanie Munu hadn’t turned up, and no one had identified the three-barbed murder weapon yet. Dr. Smith had called with DNA results: whoever sodomized Joan Malo, it
