“The line’s made of olonā fiber, right?” Kawika asked.
“I’m impressed,” said Cushing, skewering the fruit on a plastic spear. “How do you know about olonā fiber?”
Score one for the Waimea cops, thought Kawika. Just as he’d requested, they’d kept key details out of the papers.
“Strongest fiber the old Hawaiians had, wasn’t it?” Kawika replied, avoiding an answer.
“Definitely,” said Cushing, completing his work on the drinks. “Hard to find olonā anymore. And who knows the old cordage techniques?” He handed Kawika a drink, clinked glasses, slid open the glass door. They walked out onto the lanai. Cushing set down a wooden bowl of macadamia nuts.
Kawika shook his head in admiration. “Your view is magnificent,” he said. He couldn’t imagine what such a house must cost. Even now, at dusk, the bare flanks of Kohala Mountain, parched and ocher-toned at their lower elevations, stretched with increasing greenness up to a forest, over which a flat white cloud lay like a cloth. The ironwood trees guarding the road to Hāwī, the Kohala Mountain Road, stood in a dense dark line. In the failing light, Kawika picked out a few dwellings, wondering if one were Frank Kimaio’s. A pair of headlights, fused at this distance, slowly wound down the mountain toward Waimea.
The two men sat down and regarded Kohala Mountain in silence—the spectrum of fading colors, the trees lining the road to Hāwī, the tiny comet of the distant headlights. “Nice Mai Tai,” Kawika said, sipping his drink. “Strong, though. Whew.”
“So, how’s the investigation going?” Cushing asked.
“There’ve been some developments,” Kawika replied. “Not allowed to tell you much. But it looks like Peter Pukui didn’t do it.”
“What?” Cushing sputtered and sat up sharply, spilling some of his drink. “How can you say that? If he didn’t do it, who did?”
He’s not faking it, Kawika thought, noting the sudden flush on Cushing’s pale skin.
“We don’t know yet. But we’re quite sure it wasn’t Peter Pukui. I’m not at liberty to tell you why. You understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. Someone killed Ralph on an imitation heiau with a Hawaiian spear. If not Pukui, then who? Melanie Munu? Someone else in HHH?”
“Possibly. No one’s seen Melanie, but the Waimea cops are checking out the rest of them. Still, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Again, I’m not free to say much. The killing seems staged to make HHH look responsible. But whoever did it was … clumsy, let’s say. Culturally illiterate.”
Cushing face turned even brighter red. “Culturally illiterate in what way?” he asked. Then, sarcastically, “If you’re free to say, that is.”
“Well, just taking information that’s public, the ancient Hawaiians used javelins for warfare, not human sacrifices,” Kawika replied, sounding as if he’d always known this.
Cushing took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “I would have thought,” he said evenly, “that the killer is a modern Hawaiian, not an ancient one.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, this killing wasn’t designed to museum-quality specifications. The killer didn’t check with the Polynesian Cultural Center. He just wanted to say, ‘Let this be a warning to anyone who would desecrate a Hawaiian cultural site.’”
“Could be,” Kawika conceded. “But I doubt it. I think that’s what the killer hoped we’d believe. The good news is that you probably have nothing to fear from Pukui or Melanie Munu or anyone else in HHH.”
Cushing winced slightly. “So, is there bad news?” he asked.
“Well, we believe Mr. Fortunato’s death might be tied to KKL as a business venture. Something to do with the money, where it came from, where it went—that sort of thing. You worked with him, so it’s possible that whoever killed him may present a danger to you.”
“Jesus. You suspect the Japanese? The investors?” Cushing shook his head, as if trying to comprehend.
Kawika shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Mr. Shimazu was here personally. But he also could have hired the killer. Anyway, we’ve got to follow the money. Look at the books, interview Shimazu, and all that. We’d appreciate your help. You told Shimazu we’d like him to come to Hawaii voluntarily? Good. He’s being pretty elusive. And you must know the books pretty well; you’ve been preparing financial stuff for Shimazu, right?”
Cushing nodded slowly but said nothing.
“We can’t avoid visiting your office,” Kawika continued. “I don’t have to go myself, but my colleagues do. Guys in plainclothes. They won’t attract attention.”
“Of course,” Cushing muttered. Then, as if impulsively, “I’ve got things to tell you, Detective. Quite a few things, in fact.”
Just what Kawika had hoped.
“I don’t know whether this relates to Ralph’s death,” Cushing began, “but I’m pretty sure he was defrauding the company. That’s what I discovered, when I got to see the real books. And right now I need another drink.”
For an hour, Cushing ran Kawika through it: the grossly inflated price Fortunato had paid for the land, the ridiculous revenue projections, the absurd use of the Big Island’s best beach resorts as comparables for estimating sales prices of KKL real estate. Cushing explained how Fortunato could freely draw on KKL’s available cash. Cushing admitted he still didn’t know exactly what Fortunato had been up to, or whether Fortunato colluded with Shimazu. But he’d provided Kawika something new to investigate.
It was late when Kawika rose to go. Cushing, who’d consumed two more drinks, by that time looked a bit disheveled and completely wrung out. As he walked Kawika to the door, he stopped abruptly by the display case, the one with the fishhook and the olonā fiber fish line.
Kawika turned and looked back. Cushing stood immobile, staring into the case as if mesmerized. He shook his head twice and then resumed walking, now with an uneven gait.
“Lost in thought?” Kawika asked sympathetically. He could tell Cushing was drunk.
“Yeah,” Cushing answered. “Still trying to figure out Ralph’s scheme.”
“Me too,” Kawika said, cheerfully. He didn’t understand the scheme entirely, but he’d made progress. He’d also drunk his whole Mai Tai, a strong one.
Cushing walked toward the door, weaving a bit. Then he stopped suddenly again. His gaze drifted up to the ihe above
