It all happened so quickly that Kawika couldn’t call Patience until he’d landed at SeaTac Airport. He dialed while the plane was still taxiing to the gate. She wept to hear his voice.
50Hilo
Tanaka took Tommy with him to the station house in Hilo. He’d never been angrier than after Kawika’s shooting. But his desire to make a good impression on Tommy—they’d never met in person—restrained him a bit. That saved the job of the woman who answered phones for Major Crimes. Trembling, she awaited Tanaka in tears.
“I just didn’t think about it,” she confessed, unable to meet his eyes. “A man called, looking for Kawika. I told him Kawika went to the volcanoes with his cousin. Just being friendly, you know? I said Kawika would be back today. For the hālau.”
“The hula performance?” Tanaka asked.
She nodded, still sobbing, still not meeting Tanaka’s eyes.
“Did you get his name?”
“No. He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” More tears.
“What did he sound like? A local? Hawaiian? A Mainlander?”
“Not Hawaiian. Haole, I think. I don’t know. I just didn’t think about it,” she repeated, finally looking up at Tanaka. “I’m so sorry.”
Tanaka knew he should offer solace. “Well,” he said, glancing over at Tommy and trying to soften his look, “we don’t know for sure the shooter’s the same guy. Probably wasn’t, if your guy’s not Hawaiian. And Kawika will be okay—just had a close call. But next time don’t give out information—take a message. Or put ’em into voicemail.”
Tanaka held her shoulder for a moment. She met his eyes with a hopeful look. “Not everyone loves cops,” he told her. Then he turned and nodded for Tommy to follow him.
“You think the shooter’s Hawaiian, Captain?” Tommy asked when they reached Tanaka’s office.
“I think the shooter’s some whacked-out local who at least thinks he’s Hawaiian,” Tanaka replied. “Someone S&R stirred up.”
“What about Michael Cushing, though, Captain? Bet he’s still furious, yeah?”
That forced Tanaka to calm down. Besides Cushing’s broken nose, Tanaka had rebuffed Cushing’s lawyer roughly. Cushing might indeed be furious—but angry enough to kill someone? “Didn’t think of Cushing,” Tanaka admitted. “Tell you what: when you drive back, how about stopping in to see him? Don’t call first. Surprise him. You’ve been to his office? You know where he lives?”
“I do. I’ll find him, check his alibi.”
“Good,” Tanaka said. “And I haven’t thanked you. For coming over today when Kawika got shot. Giving him your shirt. That meant a lot to Kawika. I could tell.”
Tommy left wearing a windbreaker from the Hilo police. Three hours later, he called Tanaka from Waimea. “Bad news, Captain. Cushing has an alibi for the shooting, and witnesses too,” he reported. “He was in Kailua. Alibi seems really solid.”
“Ugh,” Tanaka said in disgust.
“But Captain,” Tommy suggested, “just because Cushing wasn’t the shooter doesn’t mean he wasn’t the caller.”
51Hilo
“Yeah, Terry?” Sammy Kā‘ai stood in the doorway. Tanaka motioned him in. He’d pulled Sammy off Shark Cliff and the search for Peter Pukui—they had the APB out for that—to help investigate the shooting.
“Where are we on forensics?” Tanaka asked.
“Got four guys on the scene,” Sammy replied. “One bullet blew up a retaining wall; it’s buried deep. Another glanced off a pohaku, took a chunk out of it. Bullet probably shattered. One nicked Kawika …”
“Nicked?” Tanaka interjected. “I’d say it creased Kawika pretty good.”
“Okay,” Sammy conceded. “One wounded Kawika, then went through a coco palm and toppled that mother. Just cut the tree right in half. So that bullet’s out in the bay. Maybe we’ll find it, maybe not. We’ll dig out the first one for ballistics, though.”
“Shell casings?”
“Still looking,” Sammy replied. “Haven’t found any. But we figured out where the shooter fired from. And something’s odd, Terry. You said Kawika saw a blue van peel out of there?”
“Yeah, with a helicopter on the side. Must belong to that flightseeing outfit in South Kohala. Waimea guys are checking. Not all the vans are back for the day yet.”
“But Terry, there’s no parking space where the shooter was. And how would he know where to park? Exactly where to be? No one knew Kawika would go to the Gardens, did they? At most the caller knew he’d go to the hālau. And the hālau’s across town.”
Tanaka frowned. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the shooter spotted Kawika’s Mustang and followed it till Kawika parked. Then the shooter shadowed him on foot, stalking him.”
“Concealing the gun?
“Yeah, somehow.”
“So the shooter must’ve had a getaway driver, you’re thinking?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I bet the shooter wasn’t alone in that van.”
52On the Queen K
Having taken Hawaiian studies in college, Michael Cushing knew that, despite the common misconception, ancient Hawaiians made human sacrifices to other gods, not just Kū. He also knew that in Kailua there are ruins of a heiau for Kanaloa, the god who ruled the ocean, where Hawaiian royalty sacrificed their victims for a special reason: to improve surfing conditions. The bone pits remain, and the site has been preserved as a little park, crowded with tourists.
The man who called in the night told Cushing to meet him at the little park. The call woke Cushing from a troubled sleep. It took him a few moments to orient himself and begin writing down instructions. He was exhausted, not just scared.
“Get this right the first time,” the caller warned. Cushing was given no choice. “If you’ve looked at your old spear or fishhook recently, you already know we can get into your house,” the caller pointed out. He told Cushing to leave at a specific time in the morning, well before first light. Cushing was to drive with his convertible top down, despite the cold, so he could be observed and seen to be alone. “Just bundle up,” the caller instructed. He told Cushing to drive at the speed limit, precisely sixty miles per hour, once he reached Highway 19, the Queen K. “You won’t see us,” the caller said, “but we’ll be watching.”
Cushing followed the instructions,
