“Hmm,” said the woman. “Never heard of that. Don’t seem to make no sense. Your feral cat, it mostly hunts in the evenin’ and at first light. Plus, you want the vet to be open when you pick ’em up. That’s why we check traps in the mornin’. Leastways that’s what we was taught by professionals, over to Spokane.”
Kawika and Patience turned to one another. “Jason Hare—” she began but checked herself. Kawika nodded: That’s why I asked. Kawika remembered Jarvis teasing him too, asking if he’d camped at the Mauna Kea all night to catch a cat trapper in the morning. It hadn’t seemed important then.
“What’s your group called?” Patience asked.
“We call ourselves Methow Meow,” the woman said. “Kinda corny. But folks remember the name. It was either that or Winthrop Whiskers.”
“Can I write you a check?” Patience asked. “I’d like to make a small donation.” Kawika thought, She does this every time with cats.
“Why, thank you,” the woman said. “That’s very kind. I appreciate it. We’ll put the money to good use, I promise ya.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Patience.
“Here, let me hold the kitten.” The woman took it so Patience could open her bag to get her checkbook.
“I’m Patience Quinn, by the way,” said Patience. “And this is Kawika Wong.”
“Oh,” said the woman, startled. The bottle of milk stopped half an inch from the kitten’s face. The kitten protested loudly, then stretched to reach it.
“Well, howdy then,” the woman said after an awkward moment. “Glad to meet ya, I guess. I’m Madeline John.”
62Mazama
Kawika and Patience didn’t consciously obey the marshal, but they did spend the next twenty-four hours at the Freestone. They made love, they worked—he on the phone, she on the internet—and at Kawika’s suggestion, they tried the dining room again for dinner, this time with greater success. How you feel depends on what you’re thinking, his mom had taught him. Kawika was thinking, Within these walls I’m safe.
Kawika’s good mood reflected another thought as well: What a lucky break with Madeline John. She’d listened respectfully, then in the end promised she’d intercede with her husband, try to get him to give Kawika another chance.
“I’m a Native Hawaiian,” Kawika had told her. “Mr. Fortunato destroyed a Native Hawaiian cultural site. It was an ancient boundary marker or an altar; some people thought it was a temple. I know he destroyed a Native American cultural site here too. If you and your husband will just talk to me about that one thing, the wintering shelter, I won’t ask about anything else. I promise.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she’d replied. “But you understand why Jimmy don’t wanna talk? It weren’t just Mr. Kellogg he thinks Ralph done, but Bill too.”
“Mr. Kellogg? Bill? I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s all right,” she’d said. “Jimmy’ll tell ya—or he won’t.”
When Kawika and Patience left the shop, they’d smiled at one another with satisfaction. “Great move,” he’d teased, “writing her a check. If cops had money, we wouldn’t have to, you know …”
“If you had money,” she’d replied, “maybe you wouldn’t have to play the race card like you just did.” She’d dug her elbow into his ribs. But she’d laughed too.
They headed back to the Freestone so Patience could get on the internet and start searching for the deaths of a Mr. Kellogg and someone local named Bill. Kawika called Tanaka. He intended to pass along the names Madeline John had mentioned and also what she’d said about trapping cats, but Tanaka had more dramatic information.
“We arrested your shooter,” Tanaka said. “At least we think he’s your shooter, unless someone else got his gun and is trying to frame him. The bullets are his, he owns a rifle for .375 H&H Magnum ammo, and the rifle’s missing.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Kawika. “Who is he?” Patience looked up sharply. Kawika scrawled GOT THE SHOOTER on the Freestone notepad and tossed it to her. She read the note, burst into a grin, and pumped a clenched fist.
“Well, sorry to say, he’s a Waimea cop,” Tanaka replied. “Bruno Moku‘ele. One of those hunters up at Waimea.”
“The ahupua‘a tenants?”
“Yup.”
“Moku‘ele? He’s Hawaiian?”
“Yup. But not whacked out, I don’t think. A cool customer.”
“How’d you catch him?”
“Tommy got him. Your buddy.”
“Good old Tommy.”
“No kidding. Soon as we told Tommy about the rifle using .375 H&H Magnum cartridges, he said, ‘I know who has one.’ Tommy and some other detectives went and got Bruno out of bed. The gun case was in his garage, but not the gun. He acted all surprised. Said it was there last time he looked, and so on.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“The usual: off duty, home alone, working in his yard. No one saw him.”
“Does the ammo match?”
“Same as the slug. Three-hundred-fifty-grain bullets. Even heavier than we thought. Not handloaded, but specialty items—Woodleighs. We haven’t done ballistics yet, but they’ll match up.”
“Good work, Terry. Thank Tommy for me.”
“I will. But here’s something important. Guess how Bruno got the rifle and ammo? They were gifts from Ralph Fortunato.”
“Fortunato! When? Why?” Kawika sat baffled, but Patience didn’t look up. She stared at her computer, wholly absorbed. She typed something, hit a key, and waited.
“Don’t know yet,” Tanaka said. “Bruno decided to stop talking. Wanted to see a lawyer. That’s when we arrested him.”
“Is he lying? About Fortunato giving him the gun?”
“Doubt it. That’s how Tommy knew about the gun. Bruno showed it to Tommy when he first got it, told him Fortunato gave it to him. We’ll try to find out where Fortunato got it. And maybe there’s a record of Woodleigh shipping him the ammo.”
“Is Bruno someone S&R stirred up?” Kawika asked. “Does he think I’m responsible for the Malos? For Peter Pukui going missing?”
“We don’t know. Like I said, he wouldn’t talk. But his lawyer doesn’t like you.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me.”
“Yup. Ted Pohano.”
“Jeez. Can’t we get him disqualified?”
“Maybe. The man’s a walking conflict of interest. But we’ve got a suspect in custody, and that’s enough for now. I should have—”
Kawika didn’t hear
