Kawika smiled at Cushing’s impaired motion, glad Cushing had drunk too much, enough to lose all caution, enough to divulge what looked like corruption in KKL’s finances—a possible motive for someone to murder Fortunato.
Cushing shook his head as if to clear it, but kept looking above the door.
“Admiring your spear?” Kawika asked, also looking up at it. “It’s amazing, knowing Kamehameha handled it, maybe just a mile or two from here, yeah?”
Cushing nodded, then turned and followed Kawika to the door. A few moments passed as Kawika sat on the porch and began putting on his shoes. Then Cushing, suddenly becoming animated, said sneeringly, “By the way, Detective, you shouldn’t feel bad about killing Joan Malo.”
“What?” Kawika looked up sharply. The accusation and Cushing’s change of tone—taunting, out of nowhere—startled him.
“You know, making me tell you about her affair while that Waimea detective listened. I tried to warn you. You didn’t pick up on it, I guess.”
“What are you doing, Mr. Cushing?” Kawika, bristling, stood up to face him.
“You’re probably upset with yourself,” Cushing continued. “Don’t be, that’s all I’m saying. Joan was smart and good looking, but she was a slut. Her husband was bound to find out. Good thing it happened when it did. Otherwise, he might have killed me.”
“Mr. Cushing—”
“Oh yeah, I fucked her too. Everyone did. Joan loved it. Horny little bitch. Ralph fucked her all the time. He never did kinky stuff with her. But Joan told me that when Ralph took her to Tokyo and gave her to Shimazu—”
“Mr. Cushing.” Kawika’s angry tone forced Cushing to stop. “You’re not a Native Hawaiian, are you?” Kawika asked.
Cushing looked puzzled and shook his head.
“Good,” said Kawika. “Wouldn’t want to persecute you.”
Then he broke Cushing’s nose with a right cross, the hardest punch he’d thrown in his life.
43Waimea
Cushing collapsed on the porch, covering his face with his hands. Blood streamed through his fingers.
“You son of a bitch!” he screamed, kicking blindly and pedaling with his feet. “I’ll have you fired for this! I’ll sue the shit out of you!”
The Waimea cop standing guard came running. Kawika sat down on the steps. “Here,” Kawika said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pushing it into Cushing’s hands. “Here,” he repeated. “Use this.”
Cushing held the handkerchief to his bloody face. Kawika finished lacing up his shoes.
“What the—?” exclaimed the Waimea cop, nearly breathless. A small sweat towel hung from his pocket. Kawika took it and pressed it into Cushing’s hands. He retrieved the bloody handkerchief and held it away from his body.
“Take him to the emergency room,” Kawika told the Waimea cop. “Stop the bleeding first, then take him up there. His nose is broken. He needs a doctor.”
“What about you?” the Waimea cop asked.
“I’ll go ahead,” Kawika said. “Make sure they’re ready for him. And I’ll report this too. You saw what happened?”
“I saw you hit him. I couldn’t hear what you were arguing about.”
“That’s okay. Captain Tanaka will probably want a statement from you.”
“I’ll give your fucking Captain Tanaka a fucking statement!” Cushing bellowed, his face still covered with the towel.
Kawika’s meeting was over. Cushing had provoked Kawika into a violent outburst—unprofessional conduct that would get Kawika suspended from the case, Kawika knew, if not thrown off the force. At least he had obtained a sample of Cushing’s blood. It could never be used as evidence, the fruit of an illegal search. But it might solve a nagging problem. Cushing’s DNA might match that of the sperm Dr. Smith had found in Joan Malo. And that would tell Kawika something he very much wanted to know.
From his car, Kawika called the hospital. Smith was waiting when Kawika arrived. Kawika held out the handkerchief. Smith used tongs to deposit it in a plastic bag.
“I can’t believe you’ve compromised yourself like this,” Smith scolded, zipping up the bag. “Professionally, I mean.”
“Oh, can’t you?” replied Kawika acidly. “We’ll have a chat about professional ethics soon, Doctor. If I’m still on the force.”
44Hilo
More pilikia. From the moment Cushing’s nose collapsed beneath his fist, Kawika grasped the consequences. He drove through the night to Hilo so he could get Tanaka out of bed and tell him before others did. He asked himself over and over—as he knew Tanaka would—why he’d done it. It began to feel like a stupid mistake.
Did it matter who’d sodomized Joan Malo just before she died? Cushing knew about Joan’s ordeal in Japan. Kawika could imagine Cushing forcing that information from her. But with his adrenaline draining away, Kawika could imagine other explanations. Cushing had said, “Joan told me …” But Fortunato could have told him. Or Shimazu, on Cushing’s recent trip. Which meant Cushing needn’t have forced it from Joan. Which meant …
It dawned on Kawika—and confused him—that Cushing, even drunk, had somehow guessed Kawika might assault him to defend the honor of Joan Malo. Why had Kawika done it? Had her dignity touched him? Her suffering? Was he avenging her when he hit Cushing, he wondered, trying to assuage his own guilt about her death? He even wondered whether thinking so much about Joan Malo—a conclusively unattainable woman—was some sort of irrational flight from the dilemma of Carolyn and Patience, the two women whose looks were fused in Joan’s physical appearance, Hawaiian and petite.
I’m losing it, Kawika thought. “Cool head main ting,” he reminded himself. He could have used Tommy beside him in the car.
Kawika felt relieved after calling Patience to explain, for the second time in their still-new relationship, that he wouldn’t be able to see her that night. His relief stemmed partly from decisions deferred and partly from her reaction. She sounded worried—not angry, not even disappointed, just worried. She cares about me, Kawika thought. I’ve got a little time to figure this out.
A few miles from Tanaka’s door, with midnight near, Kawika pulled himself together and found some hard kernel of resolution, determination. The thought
