“What’s there to think about?” Kawika snapped back. “Anyway, you had accomplices—the blackboard boys.”
Kimaio took a deep breath. The effort was difficult for him, Kawika could tell. “You’re the guy who reads murder mysteries,” Kimaio said. “What makes a good murder mystery? The detective has to solve the crime. Okay, you did that. Congratulations. But doesn’t the detective have to do more? Doesn’t he have to solve himself?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just this: you’re torn between two women—paralyzed. And you can’t decide if you’re haole or Hawaiian, living that life or this one. If I’ve heard you correctly.”
“You mean overheard me correctly.”
“Right, overheard you correctly. So those are things you’ll try to solve, later today or some other day, now that you’ve solved the killing. But what you’ve got to solve right now, this moment, handcuffed to this tree, is whether you’re such a straight arrow, so powerless, that all you can do once you’ve solved the killing is arrest me, arrest us all. Or whether morality is more important.”
“Morality? Killing people?”
“Killing killers,” Kimaio corrected. “Fortunato and Rocco both. Well, it was justice. You decide what’s moral.”
“It wasn’t moral.”
“Not what I meant. The killings were my decision. I meant you have to decide what’s moral now—whether it’s moral to turn me in.”
“You and the blackboard boys?” Kawika replied. “You’re saying, let you all go? Is that it? That’s the moral choice? Because of your idea of justice—vigilante justice?”
Kimaio took another loud raspy breath, then signed deeply. “Detective,” he said. “I hope you live a long life. But at the end of it, where I am, you’ll find that all you have left—all you’ve got to cling to—is your image of yourself. My image of myself wouldn’t allow Steve Kellogg’s death to go unpunished. It’s that simple. Now, what’s your image of yourself? Tanaka calls you Mister Clean. Is that all you are, Mister Clean? A robot? That automatic, that shallow? Here’s some advice: Always conduct yourself the way that five years from now you’ll wish you’d conducted yourself. Always. Think about that.”
“Looks like I’ve got time to think about it.”
“That you do,” said Kimaio brightly, checking his watch. “Meanwhile, I’ve got some questions for you. What tipped you off, exactly?”
“Little things,” Kawika replied. “Logical things. Mostly my trip to the mainland. Steve Kellogg’s death, because you hadn’t mentioned it. Jimmy Jack’s business card, his phone number and yours—Joe Crane as the telephone buddy you shared. The Methow Valley filled with blackboard boys—plus two in Wenatchee.”
“Well, the plan was premised on you not going to the mainland, and certainly not to the Methow. You were supposed to figure out that the spear and cord and the naupaka were Cushing’s, that he grabbed Fortunato at the Murphys’ and was trying to frame Peter Pukui. Why weren’t you more culturally literate?” Kimaio laughed, then coughed again.
The question brought Kawika a realization: Fortunato died on Kamehameha’s spear, yet he died for mainland sins, and a mainland haole killed him. So what did his murder have to do with cultural literacy, with race, with anything Hawaiian at all? The whole thing had been a white man’s problem, just as Jimmy Jack had said: a white killer lynched by a white cop. Kawika wanted to think more about this, but at the moment he couldn’t.
“I went to the mainland because someone shot me,” he finally responded. “It wasn’t planned. Everyone thought a Hawaiian did it, that I wasn’t safe here.”
“Everyone but you.”
“Well, I thought so too—at first. And if I hadn’t gone to the mainland, I might never have learned the formula for getting away with murder.”
“Ah. You mean do it yourself, don’t rely on anyone, use some ordinary weapon, make sure your alibi can’t be broken even though it won’t be believed—that formula? The one Rocco taught Fortunato? The one Fortunato followed, and I didn’t?”
“Yeah, that formula. I realized Fortunato followed it, but in the end, I realized he made a big mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“He thought the formula applied even if the person you murder is a federal prosecutor.”
“Oh.”
“But it doesn’t apply if you murder a federal prosecutor, does it?”
“No,” replied Kimaio. “No, it doesn’t.”
“If you murder a federal prosecutor, you end up dead. Right?”
“Right. One way or another, you end up dead.”
“Dead in a way that sends a message?” Kawika continued. “Revenge is ours—that sort of thing.”
“Right.”
“So you needed Fortunato to know who was killing him, and why. And you needed to signal your colleagues back in Washington, in Winthrop and Wenatchee, that the deed was done.”
“You are culturally literate,” Kimaio said. “At least in our culture.” He smiled, as if they were good friends sharing a joke.
Kawika didn’t smile back. “You needed to get away with it too. Is that why I’m here? So you’ll get away with it?”
“Not exactly. It’s as I said: you’re here so you can make a decision. I’ll get away with it no matter what. I’m dying faster than expected.” Kimaio looked at his watch again. “I’ve still got a little time,” he said cheerfully. “And you’ve still got a while to wait.”
Kawika shifted position, trying to get more comfortable. “Then what shall we talk about?” he asked. “The Shark Cliff case? That haole who’d been handcuffed?”
“Let’s not,” Kimaio said. “Different bad guy, that one. Different cuffs too.”
They both fell silent. Then Kimaio added briskly, “And before you ask, I have no idea where Peter Pukui is, just so you know.”
“I’m surprised. You seem to know everything.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Detective,” Kimaio said. “And now I need to go lie down for a bit. Happens to me these days. I’ll leave you the water,” he added, handing Kawika a bottle carefully, at arm’s length. This time Kawika took it. He’d be able, barely, to get it to his mouth on it around the slender tree trunk. “Don’t worry, Detective—I’ll be back before too long; I won’t die and abandon you. Meanwhile, there’re nothing scary here. No
