“Frankly,” Gonzales replied when Kawika asked, “no one suspected Harding had been murdered until Kellogg was. We thought Harding just drowned. It was a big setback; we’d subpoenaed Harding to testify to the grand jury in the Fawn Ridge case.”
“Forgive me,” Kawika said, “but there’s something really odd here. When I met Frank Kimaio, he briefed me on Fortunato. He sorta mentioned Harding in passing, but not by name, just called him a buddy who sold Fortunato the land. But he never mentioned Steve Kellogg at all. And he never said you guys suspected Fortunato of murder.”
“Probably a simple explanation,” Gonzales said. “Frank—and by the way, his name was Frank Carlson before he moved to Hawaii—Frank worked on the Fawn Ridge fraud case and the wintering shelter—the first Fortunato case. Frank was the lead FBI agent, working with Kellogg on those. Then Kellogg got killed. And that was a different case. Agent Billings here was lead agent on the Kellogg murder investigation, working with me.”
“Wait a minute,” said Kawika. “Frank Kimaio was Frank Carlson before he moved to Hawaii?”
“That’s right,” Billings said. “Frank always planned to retire in Hawaii—him and his buddy Joe Crane. They flew together in Nam. Joe worked at the phone company here, got a telecom job in Hawaii after that. Frank could’ve kept working in Hawaii too, but he wanted to retire. I understand he’s sick now—right, Ernesto? Dying maybe. Agent Orange, I heard. Anyway, he’d put away a lot of bad guys, so he changed his name. High-profile agents do that sometimes.”
“He chose an odd name,” Kawika observed. “Hawaiian letters, but not really the right sounds. ‘Kuh-MY-oh,’ ‘Kuh-MAY-oh’? Not a Hawaiian name, it seems.”
Gonzales laughed.
“Don’t tell that to Frank,” Billings said. “You’d hurt his feelings. Frank tried to learn about Hawaii, studied the language a bit. He had more enthusiasm than time.”
“Okay,” Gonzales continued, “but probably Frank didn’t mention the murder because you were investigating Fortunato’s real estate scam. That’s what Frank worked on here, the real estate scam. In Hawaii you didn’t suspect Ralph of murder, did you?”
“Not then. He was the victim.”
“Right. And here, of course, he was the suspect. Finally—” Billings looked at Gonzales.
“Finally,” Gonzales said, “Frank was Steve Kellogg’s head agent. They’d been buddies a long time. That’s why we couldn’t let Frank participate in the murder investigation. Would’ve given Fortunato’s defense lawyers too much to work with. So I’m not surprised he didn’t mention Kellogg. He didn’t work on that case, and of course it was all really painful for him. Wouldn’t mention it unless you asked. He doesn’t know much about the investigation anyway.”
“So you two are the experts on Kellogg’s murder?”
“Well, more than Frank. Not expert enough to nail Fortunato, unfortunately.” Billings shook his head. “Couldn’t nail him for fraud, couldn’t nail him for murder.”
“What kind of gun killed Kellogg?” Kawika asked.
“Nine-millimeter handgun,” Billing answered. “Army surplus ammunition. As common a weapon and ammo as the killer could have chosen. We never found the gun.”
“Did Fortunato own a nine millimeter?”
“He owned lots of guns,” Billings replied. “Kind of a gun nut—or serious collector, depending on your point of view. He never bought from dealers, only at gun shows.”
“So we couldn’t trace his guns,” Gonzales explained.
“Maybe it’s different in Hawaii,” said Billings. “Over here, a gun bought at a show—you know, a private thing, like a swap meet—there’s no permit, no waiting period, no background check. No registration required. Untraceable.”
“Still, he needed an alibi,” Kawika said.
“Claimed to be in Seattle,” replied Gonzales. “He kept a condo there. Fawn Ridge had its corporate offices in Seattle, where most of the investors lived. So he had a legitimate reason for being there. But he had time to drive to Wenatchee and back on the night of the murder.”
“You couldn’t prove it?”
“Well, he’d set up his alibi in advance,” Gonzales said. “Three hours before Kellogg was shot, Fortunato asked his Seattle neighbor there for some laundry soap. And three hours after Kellogg was shot, Fortunato answered his Seattle home phone when we called. By the time we got warrants, he’d just happened to have washed his car, the tires—and also underneath. He’d even changed the air filter. We figure he covered himself for the shooting and brought Handi Wipes or something plus a change of clothes. Shot Steve, stripped and wiped down, put everything in plastic bags, dropped ’em at different places.”
“And the gun?”
“We checked everywhere between here and Seattle,” replied Billings. “Any place he might have thrown it. Big job. We hoped he’d tossed it right away. But he probably kept it till he got to Seattle, dumped it in Lake Washington or Puget Sound. And we couldn’t prove he’d ever owned a nine-millimeter handgun anyway.”
“You still thought you could nail him?” Kawika asked. “Without the gun?”
“Well, he had means and opportunity, and motive. He really hated Kellogg. He tended to be a hothead—impulsive. So we used a lot of search warrants. Tore his life apart, let’s say: the grand jury, his financial records, lots of high-tech lab tests, that sort of thing. His investors knew he was the prime suspect, even though the news media didn’t print that. And then—” Gonzales hesitated.
“And then we wiretapped them,” Billings said firmly. “Fortunato, his key investors, his wife. All of ’em. Home phones, work phones. Joe Crane, Frank’s Vietnam buddy, ran those taps for us before he moved to Hawaii. We monitored their cell phones too.”
“We wanted to see what they’d say to one another,” Gonzales said. “We had maximum pressure on him, and they knew it.”
“So what did you get?” Kawika asked.
“No smoking gun—pardon the expression. Fortunato controlled himself for once. He knew we’d tapped his phones. Still, other Fawn Ridge people had no doubt he’d done it. Among themselves they’d discuss how he hated Kellogg. Some had heard Fortunato vow to kill him. But when they’d talk to Fortunato himself, he’d say, ‘You know, I’m
