Cushing found it hard to think clearly. He’d been up all night, and the bookkeeping he’d had to unravel, combined with jet lag, the destruction of his financial dreams, and the imminent end of his employment, left him exhausted. So he went to bed. He woke up a bit refreshed and resolved to escape: escape Melanie’s killing; Fortunato’s killer, whoever that was; Kawika; Shimazu; the whole lot of them.
His objective for the meeting with Kawika, Cushing decided, should just be to talk: talk as long as Kawika let him. Talk and tell him nothing. Let Kawika say good night no wiser than when he’d said hello, and Cushing could get some more sleep. Then he’d be fully rested. Then he’d make a plan. He crushed out his second cigarette, closed up the office, put the top down on his KKL convertible, and headed down the mountain toward the Queen K for the long drive home.
41Hilo
Sammy Kā‘ai devised a sensible plan to discover the identity of the Shark Cliff victim he’d dubbed the Handcuffed Haole, though he still suspected the man was a stray. First, he asked a fellow officer to look through the missing person reports. The Big Island generated a lot of them. Then he had Dr. Ko, the Hilo coroner, provide enhanced images of the dead man’s tattoos, the traditional anchor and the ancient aku fishhook with coiled line. Sammy had these printed on scores of flyers. Finally, he picked a small team—just two officers—to canvass the boats and crews in Hilo harbor.
The plan had shortcomings. Sammy knew his pair weren’t the most diligent; they were just the officers Hilo’s top brass were willing to spare. Maybe they’d get lucky on the first try, or early at least. But Hilo Harbor was jammed with boats—big boats, little boats, fishing boats, tugboats, all kinds of boats. Some were almost always out to sea. Others came to port only at night. And whatever else they did, Sammy’s pair of officers didn’t work at night. Some boat owners and captains and crew weren’t possible to identify, much less find. A lot of them lived in Honolulu or even Alaska.
Sammy had the pair check the Big Island’s other major harbor, Honokohau in Kona, a marina that provided all the frustrations of Hilo’s, plus a lot more lazy afternoons on the island’s dry side for the two officers. Sammy urged them to stick with it. “Sooner or later we’ll find someone who knows him,” he insisted.
Sammy did not ask them to check the tiny boat harbor in Kawaihae, the one near Pu‘ukoholā Heiau. The one with only a handful of watercraft, although it did include the racing canoe that Kai Malo and Tommy once paddled together.
42Waimea
Cushing lived halfway up the slope between Kawaihae and Waimea. From that elevation, you could see twenty miles down the coast and far out to sea. But Cushing’s house, curved like a wide-angle lens, faced Kohala Mountain instead. People were meant to enter this house and walk right through it, out the other side and into the view—one of the biggest views on the Big Island. As Kawika drove up, he noticed that the Waimea cop guarding the house had positioned himself to be able to enjoy that view.
Cushing answered the door. “A yellow Mustang convertible?” he said. “Pretty nice cop car.”
“It’s mine,” Kawika said. “Second-hand from Mr. Hertz.”
Cushing chuckled and led Kawika inside. “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said. “Hope you understand. We’ve got the place to ourselves. My wife’s off leading a tour in Raiatea.”
“Good,” Kawika said. “Then I don’t feel so bad, taking up your evening.”
“How about a drink?” Cushing asked. “I know you’re on duty, but I make a mean Mai Tai. Personal recipe. Got the ingredients ready and waiting.”
“Can’t turn that down, I guess.” Kawika figured it might help if Cushing had a drink. He resolved just to sip his.
“Look around,” Cushing said. “We can talk while I work.” A half wall separated kitchen and living room. Kawika turned slowly to regard the décor.
“You’ve got a Hawaiian museum here,” Kawika said appreciatively. “You’ve even got an old ihe.” The four-barbed spear hung over the front door. Kawika walked over to inspect it.
“Correct,” said Cushing. “But not the murder weapon, right?” Cushing laughed to signal the small joke.
“Nope,” Kawika replied. “We’ve got that one locked up in the evidence room.”
Cushing switched on a blender. When the noise stopped, he said, “My ihe’s not just old, it’s historic. It’s one Kamehameha used in a famous exhibition for Captain Vancouver. Dealer in London got it for me.” Cushing retrieved limes and cherries and pineapple from his refrigerator. “There were six to begin with, all thrown at Kamehameha. He caught or deflected or dodged them all. Then he gave them to Vancouver as a present. Vancouver kept one, delivered four to the British Museum, and gave the sixth to one of his fellow officers, Peter Puget.”
“Peter Puget, as in Puget Sound?”
“Same one, the guy who raised the British flag on Hawaiian soil. Puget’s family kept his ihe for two hundred years. Finally they sold it. I was lucky to get it.”
“Amazing,” said Kawika, struck by who’d touched this ihe: Kamehameha, Vancouver, Puget. He reached up to touch it himself, running one finger over the four barbs. “Do you know other collectors, folks who might be missing an ihe?”
Cushing laughed. “Sorry, can’t help you there. Collectors of Hawaiiana don’t hold swap meets. We’re rivals, not friends.”
Kawika stepped away from the ihe and peered into a display case. “What about this fishhook?” he asked.
“Mother of pearl,” Cushing called from the kitchen. “For aku. I don’t think mine was ever used, though, judging by the fish line. Doesn’t look like it ever got wet. I think
