I did not kill Kellogg, because I was unexpectedly in jail in the summer of 1998. I phoned Fortunato from jail to explain. He was upset, so I suggested he prepare a good alibi and do the job himself. I told him to use a nine-millimeter handgun he said he owned. I told him to break it down afterward and throw away the parts. I warned him the police would not believe his alibi. I said they would wiretap him, so I told him not to call me again.
Kawika imagined that Ernesto Gonzales and Harold Billings, back in Eastern Washington, probably closed the Kellogg murder investigation once they knew Fortunato was dead. But here was evidence that Fortunato had indeed owned the handgun they’d never found, the one whose existence Melissa Jane Harding had confirmed to Kawika after withholding that information from the FBI. How differently things might have turned out if Melissa had told them about that handgun! Fortunato might never have reached Hawai‘i, might be in prison even today, appealing a death sentence for murdering a Federal prosecutor.
Here’s how Cushing got my name: from Fortunato. I was surprised by that. He said they were having dinner once and ordering bottles of Preston wine. Fortunato said he knew another Preston in California. Fortunato boasted of our relationship, told Cushing where I lived, and said he’d once hired me to kill someone who’d ruined his resort development in Washington. Cushing said Fortunato told him this in order to sound like a “tough guy.”
Well, Kawika thought, Jimmy Jack got it right: Fortunato was a dumb fuck. Although maybe, after multiple bottles of Preston wine, he’d just been a little too talkative.
71South Kohala
In Honolulu, Kawika switched his connecting flight to Kailua-Kona instead of Hilo. There was no extra charge. A Post-it Note from Tanaka on Rocco’s confession told Kawika to get to the Hilo station before Tanaka’s afternoon press conference the next day. Cushing’s arrest and the Duct Tape Mummy’s confession were hot news, and an official explanation couldn’t wait. The police chief would be there in person.
Kawika figured he could fly to Kailua-Kona, do what he had to do, and still reach Hilo in time. From Honolulu, he called Carolyn to say he’d spend the night at his dad’s. He had to see Ku‘ulei, he explained. He promised he’d see Carolyn for dinner in Hilo the next night, after Tanaka’s press conference. She accepted his plans passively, and his heart sank a bit with sadness. But it didn’t shake his resolution. He decided to wait a day before returning voice messages from Patience on the mainland; he still had to meet with Tanaka first, decide what to do about the killer.
Next he called and reserved a car at the Kailua-Kona airport. In the end, he’d flown coach to Honolulu, so the Department hadn’t had to spring for first class. It could pay for a rental car instead. Kawika drove straight to the King Kam Kourt in Kailua. “We’ve got a lot of K’s in Hawaiian, don’t we, Ku‘ulei?” He made the manager lead the way to Rocco’s room.
“The police sealed it,” the manager said. “I’m not sure I should let you in.”
“I’m Detective Kawika Wong,” Kawika repeated, showing his badge. The manager studied the badge, then stood aside.
For the second time in this investigation, Kawika ducked under a yellow crime scene tape. The Waimea and Kona cops had checked every surface for prints, then tossed the room.
“There’s nothing they didn’t get,” the manager said.
Kawika wasn’t sure about that. Where was Rocco’s handgun? Kawika had a hunch. He entered the bathroom, lifted the lid of the toilet tank, and showed the manager a pistol taped underneath in a Ziploc bag. A smaller bag held some bullets.
“How about this?” Kawika asked. Disappointing, he thought. Our guys missed this, missed those shell casings in Hilo. What else?
“A handgun.” The manager shrugged. He didn’t seem impressed, maybe after seeing a big rifle with a telescopic sight in the same room. “What kind?”
“A nine millimeter, probably,” Kawika said, replacing the lid. He imagined Melanie Munu confronting the same gun unsheathed. “Don’t touch it,” he warned, then dialed the police station in Kailua to call it in.
Kawika got back in the car and drove north on Highway 19, the Queen K, all the way to the Mauna Kea. He took the turnoff and parked at the gate house.
“Hey, Johnny,” he said. “Can I use your phone?”
“Ain’t got your cell, brah?”
“Battery’s dead,” Kawika said. Johnny seemed surprised but motioned Kawika inside.
Kawika called Tommy on the gate house landline. “Thanks for remembering that rifle, Tommy,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“You haven’t heard the latest,” Tommy said. “You were on the plane. Bruno Moku‘ele’s talking. Came in this morning. His lawyer convinced him.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Tanaka showed him Rocco’s confession,” Tommy replied. “Since Rocco said he shot you and Tanaka had the rifle from Rocco’s motel room, Bruno was off the hook on that. But the thing is, Cushing knew where to get that rifle for Rocco. So Tanaka told Bruno he must’ve been Cushing’s accomplice. It was a trick, but it worked. Bruno’s lawyer told him he’d better tell the truth.”
“And Bruno spilled?” Kawika asked.
“Yup. Turns out Fortunato was paying him. Bruno organized the hunters’ group, whipped ’em up to start suing. After Fortunato died, Bruno went to Cushing. He wanted to know what to do next. Showed Cushing the rifle, told him he’d gotten it from Fortunato and had it sitting in his garage except to show folks; sort of proof, I guess, that he and Fortunato really had a deal.”
“Wow. Doesn’t sound too bright.”
“Yeah, well. So what happens to Bruno now, you think? Tanaka wants him thrown off the force.”
“Beats getting charged as an accomplice. Or worse.”
“No doubt.”
“So, Tommy,” Kawika said, changing subjects, “remind me—what’s Frank Kimaio’s address, up there on Kohala Mountain Road?”
“You won’t need an address,” Tommy said. “You
