“Olonā?” Kawika asked.
“A type of nettle,” Smith said. “Best fiber plant the old Hawaiians had. Never used today. So this strand is old too—another museum piece. Certainly missing from someone’s collection.”
Smith put down the twine, then walked to the corpse. Reaching under the sheet, he lifted Fortunato’s right arm.
“Look at this,” he said. “Recognize those marks?”
Kawika looked. “Cuffs,” he replied.
“Bingo,” said Smith, still holding the wrist toward Kawika. “Handcuffs. Distinctive ones too. The edge of one cuff was damaged. A chisel or something. Find the cuffs, you’ll find the killer.”
“But the killer tied his hands,” Kawika said. “He used the cord.”
“Right again,” Smith said. “But notice, our boy’s got cuff marks only. No marks or fibers from the cord. No signs of ligature, as they say in the literature.”
Kawika scratched his head with his gloved hand and felt the odd sensation of latex in his hair.
“Trust me,” Smith said. “He died with cuffs on. The cord came later. And by the way”—Smith covered the right arm and uncovered the left, holding the wrist toward Kawika—“his left wrist was cuffed twice. Caught skin both times.”
“But where are the cuffs?” Kawika asked.
“With the gag, I’d guess,” Smith answered. “A thousand kisses deep.”
Kawika shot him a sharp look.
“Sorry,” said Smith. “That’s from a new Leonard Cohen song. I simply meant the killer probably got rid of the cuffs too.” He lifted the bottom of the sheet.
“And the shoes?” Smith continued. “The shoes must be on a different foot. Or feet. Before he died, he was walking barefoot. Feet have loose dirt on ’em. Also sand, bits of cinders, fresh grass stains. Yes, sir, a lucky man: died with his boots off.”
“Not exactly in his own bed,” Kawika said, increasingly irritated with Smith’s joking.
“No,” Smith agreed. “Not exactly.” He paused and looked hard at Kawika, as if appraising him. “There’s one more thing,” he added. He handed Kawika a plastic sandwich bag. Kawika lifted it to examine the contents: a sprig of green plant with white flowers. Looking at it told him nothing.
“It’s an unusual plant,” Smith explained. “It was in his pocket. You recognize it? No. Well, it’s mountain naupaka. And it’s fresh.”
Kawika turned the bag this way and that, as if looking at the plant would reveal the doctor’s point.
“As its name implies,” Smith went on, “mountain naupaka grows in the mountains. At least in the wild. It wilts pretty fast, and you can’t keep it fresh in water. So this piece is less than a day old.”
“Which means?”
“Which means,” Smith replied, “if this particular naupaka grew in the wild, then yesterday Mohammed went to the mountain—or the mountain came to Mohammed. Unless, as I’d suspect, there’s another source.”
Kawika frowned again. Smith frowned too. Kawika could see in that disapproving frown that he’d somehow disappointed the doctor. It puzzled him. “Look,” he said to Smith. “We’re just getting started.”
Tommy, the Waimea cop, was waiting at reception when Kawika emerged from the makeshift morgue. “Checked on Peter Pukui, our HHH guy,” Tommy said. “No one in Kawaihae has seen him for a few days. Not him, not his girlfriend either. Her full name’s Melanie Munu. Apparently she’s a real powerhouse.”
“What about Shimazu?”
“Checked out of the Mauna Lani Bay Hotel at six this morning. Caught the eight o’clock JAL flight to Tokyo. Hotel staff printed his boarding pass for him. Airline confirms he’s on the plane.”
“So he left before he knew Fortunato was dead?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Unless he killed him.”
5Waikoloa Village
Kawika had never seen anyone as agitated as Michael Cushing. Cushing had good reason to be agitated: someone had just murdered his boss, and Cushing feared he’d be next. Kawika didn’t doubt that Cushing’s fear was real.
“Those bastards will kill me!” Cushing shouted. Kawika and Tommy turned in place as Cushing, tall and very pale in a starched aloha shirt, circled his wood-paneled KKL Development office at a near run. Kawika couldn’t help smiling at this frantic indoor athletic display. He risked a glance at Tommy, who was trying to suppress a smirk.
“Mr. Cushing,” said Kawika, hoping to calm him, “no one’s going to kill you. We’ll have police officers guard your house, even your office and your car if you want. The killer will hide now—or run. If you’ll help us, Mr. Cushing, we’ll catch him. Or them. Right away.”
Cushing slowed to a walk. Finally he sat down and collected himself. On the wall behind him, the future KKL resort, displayed on an acetate overlay, covered a huge aerial photograph of a lava-and-scrub volcanic flank.
Cushing had a lot of information to impart, once he relaxed a bit. Like Corazon Fortunato, he insisted the “temple Hawaiians” must have committed the crime. But Cushing added details. And he knew what HHH stood for.
“Hui Heiau Hawai‘i,” he said. “The Hawaiian Temple Association, basically. Association, union, popular front—that’s the idea.”
“You speak Hawaiian?” asked Kawika.
“A little. Not much. Took Hawaiian studies at UH Mānoa. My family—” Cushing stopped abruptly.
“Your family what?” Kawika asked.
“Nothing,” replied Cushing. “I was just going to say, I grew up in Hawai‘i.”
Kawika let it pass. “Tell me about Peter Pukui,” he said.
“Scary son of a bitch. Normal size, but mean. Looks more haole than Hawaiian.” Cushing’s gaze flickered for a moment. Kawika nodded. It’s okay.
“He lives in Kawaihae,” Cushing went on. “Works in the boat harbor. His girlfriend is as political as he is. Melanie Munu. She’s not Hawaiian. Maori, I think. She’s the organizer for HHH and some other Native groups. The driving force. But Peter’s the spokesman—their ‘Orator,’ they call him.”
“How did it start?” Kawika asked. “The dispute with HHH, I mean.”
“We found an old structure of lava rock,” replied Cushing. “It was partly broken down, probably by cattle. Parker Ranch used to lease this land. It could’ve been a temple for human sacrifice, a so-called luakini heiau. Ralph hired a team from the University of Hawai‘i at Hilo to check it out. I figured they’d say, ‘Yeah, maybe it’s authentic, but it’s no big deal,
