Patience didn’t dread hearing from Kawika, but ultimately despaired of it. He didn’t return her calls. Something had made him inaccessible. She didn’t know what—the distance or the case or their two such different lives. But she suspected the last of these. As for distance, he’d begun withdrawing in the Methow Valley when the distance between them was only from one car seat to another, and he’d suddenly stopped answering her questions. As for the case, well, it had brought them together. If it separated them now, that was a bad sign. After this murder there’d be another and then another. So it had to be their hopelessly different lives, she concluded. Like a stone adze of the ancient Hawaiians, doubt began to thud against the new life she’d been imagining, cutting the lashings, flaking the timbers, reducing it to rubble, chip by chip, chunk by chunk.
76Hilo
At the station the next morning, Kawika again apologized for missing the press conference. Something personal had come up, Kawika said without further explanation, something he just couldn’t talk about. Tanaka waited. Kawika could tell Tanaka still assumed a tryst with Patience had kept him from showing up. He knew his terse apology probably made matters worse. But having thought about it overnight, he realized he had to be very careful with Tanaka right now.
Awkwardly, Kawika began. He wanted to make sure, he said, that Tanaka had considered certain evidence that made Kawika question whether Rocco had killed Fortunato and whether a Hawaiian group—S&R in particular—had killed Rocco.
“What evidence?” Tanaka asked defensively.
“Well, start with the confession. Rocco says he killed Melanie, and he says he tried to kill me. But he never actually says he killed Fortunato.”
“He comes close,” Tanaka replied. “And it’s corroborated. Cushing owned the murder weapon, and Rocco says Cushing told him to use the weapon Cushing gave him.”
“But that particular one? It’s about the most significant spear in Hawaiian history.”
“Yes, but no one in Hawaii would know that. No photos of it, no other identification. Only other person who knew its history, before Cushing told you, was a London antique dealer we’d never think to even look for. Plus, Cushing could always claim the killer stole it—which is what he does claim. Same with the cord. And the cord wasn’t public information.”
“But Terry, the confession doesn’t mention the cord at all. I don’t think Rocco knew about the cord.”
Tanaka ignored him. “The naupaka in Fortunato’s pocket,” Tanaka continued, “came from a flower bed right next to Cushing’s front door. Did you notice that naupaka, after you decked him? No? Well, the naupaka wasn’t public information either. We’ve got Cushing for the Fortunato killing, Kawika. End of story.”
“What about the shore naupaka in Rocco’s pocket?” Kawika asked. “Doesn’t that suggest the same person killed both of them?”
“It’s a coincidence, like we already discussed,” Tanaka said. “Cushing wanted naupaka in Fortunato’s pocket to make it look like Hawaiians did it. Hawaiians put naupaka in Rocco’s pocket so we’d know they did it.”
“But Rocco’s confession refers to a ‘sacred flower,’ Terry. Naupaka’s not sacred, is it? I think he was talking about ohia or something.”
“Maybe Cushing’s culturally illiterate. Carolyn said the killer must be.”
“Yet Rocco’s statement suggests killing Fortunato and then putting his body on the tee box,” Kawika responded. “That’s not culturally illiterate—it’s more authentic than what actually happened.”
“Kawika, the cultural aspect of Fortunato’s murder was merely simulated—crudely simulated. A haole was killed on a luxury golf course with a spear,” Tanaka said. “That’s all there was to it.”
Kawika tried again. “Okay, then, is S&R culturally illiterate too? So illiterate that suddenly they can’t spell?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Rocco’s confession spells Kawika with a v. Consistently. The envelope that arrived here at the station had the same mistake, didn’t it?”
“We can check—I don’t remember. But I’d say that’s a stray, Kawika.”
“And his confession never capitalizes ‘native’ where it uses ‘Native Hawaiian.’ Does that sound like S&R?”
The expression on Tanaka’s face verged on stink eye.
Kawika made one final effort. “Let me try one more approach,” he offered. “Once Tommy gave me a phone number: 555-8998. ‘Easy to remember,’ I said. ‘That’s what Terry thought too,’ Tommy said. Why did you think that, Terry? What made it easy to remember?”
Tanaka waved his hand, as if brushing away a fly. “That’s Frank Kimaio’s number,” he said. “It’s easy to remember because eight-nine reminds me of August 9.”
“And what’s special about August 9?”
“Nagasaki. The atom bomb. Hiroshima was August 6, Nagasaki was August 9.”
“How about eight-nine-ninety-eight? August 9, 1998, that is?”
“Like I said, Nagasaki. Fifty-third anniversary, I guess.”
Kawika clenched his teeth in frustration, but kept trying. “So eight-nine-ninety-eight could be a date? A phone number that would remind you of that date? A number you might get from a buddy who works at the phone company?”
“So what?” Tanaka said. “This has nothing to do with the case, Kawika.”
Kawika barely restrained himself. He wanted to scream, Don’t you get it, Terry? Every single clue in Fortunato’s murder turned out to be a red herring. We were meant to arrest the wrong guy—and we did. But Kawika didn’t scream. He didn’t say anything at all. He was sure Tanaka must understand all this perfectly. Yet for some reason Tanaka had decided to pretend he didn’t.
Kawika and his boss spent a long time regarding one another. Finally Kawika spoke. “Why are you doing this, Terry? I’d really like to know.”
“What’s true is this, Kawika: I’m your superior and I am doing this. That’s what matters. But as to why—well, whoever killed Fortunato and Rocco killed the right people. Whoever did it probably saved your life. Rocco could have kept shooting, you know; he had plenty more ammo, and that lava wall wouldn’t have stopped a pea shooter. Cushing did commit Melanie’s murder, using Rocco, and he tried to
