“The video shows he just stumbled and keeled over.”
Koa wondered why Ikaika had faltered. Ikaika, a tough bastard, was always eager to take on all comers in a barroom brawl or jailhouse rumble. Koa had seen him, bruised and battered with a black eye and a cut lip after one of his fights, but the other guy lingered in the hospital. Maybe, Ikaika had gotten into a jailhouse scrap with some tougher inmate who’d knifed him. Starting a jailhouse melee fit his brother’s style.
Still, Koa felt an unexpected surge of concern. Not long ago he’d been hoping Ikaika would testify and go back to his cage. Now he wanted to see his brother. With the school disaster relief at a critical stage, the investigation just starting, and the police chief off-island, Koa couldn’t go to O‘ahu, at least not right away. Still, someone from the family had to go. He thought about calling Mauloa, their middle brother, but he had disowned Ikaika years ago. He’d have to call his sister, Alana. It’d be a tough sell. She’d given up on Ikaika, refusing even to talk to him, but in the end, Koa knew, she’d listen to him and reluctantly agree. A combination of respect for her older brother and pressure from Māmā would overcome her resistance.
He called Alana, and three hours later, made his way to Hilo airport, parked in the lot across from the terminal, and walked through the rain under turbulent gray clouds. He’d come to see his sister Alana off to be with his stricken youngest brother. Flashing his credentials, he made his way past security. Alana surprised him by showing up with his mother. He should’ve guessed Māpuana would insist on going to see Ikaika. No one cared more for Ikaika. She’d been there for Ikaika throughout his violent adolescence and beyond, making excuses for him and crying each time the authorities hauled him off to prison. She’d just recovered from a near-fatal bout of pneumonia, and at sixty-eight, the trip would take its toll on her.
The two women peppered Koa with questions while they waited for the flight. What had happened to Ikaika? Had he been attacked in jail? How badly was he hurt? Why did prison officials move him to O‘ahu? Koa told them what little he knew—that Ikaika blacked out in the local jail while waiting to testify in a criminal trial. He hadn’t regained consciousness, and local medics had ordered him airlifted him to Queen’s Medical Center, the best hospital in the islands. His vital signs remained strong, but he hadn’t awakened from some sort of coma.
His mother took Koa’s hand, holding it painfully tight. “You must pray for him,” she said. “E pule i kēia manawa. Now is the time for prayer.”
Koa acknowledged Māpuana’s request, but she didn’t release his hand. “And you must see your brother. Soon. He needs you.”
He nodded, but inside he asked himself when Ikaika had ever needed anyone.
Finally, the gate agent announced the flight, and Koa walked his family to the jetway. He worried as much about Māpuana as Ikaika. Visiting her son in the hospital would be tough on her. Then he wondered if he’d ever see his brother again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Koa stood at his office window, watching the rain come down, and worrying about his brother.
“The mayor wants an update on KonaWili,” Piki announced.
Koa sighed. The young detective, shifting from one foot to the other in the doorway, hadn’t brought good news. Koa hated dealing with politicians. Most of the time, Chief Lannua dealt with the mayor and the county council, shielding Koa from politics. Politicians always had an agenda—intrigue, punishing perceived enemies, outmaneuvering the opposition, winning the next election—but never about justice. Koa felt out of place in the political world, but physicians still had the chief in a California hospital, preparing him for gallbladder surgery, and the mayor wouldn’t wait.
Koa grew more anxious when he found Watanabe and Inaba with the mayor. They’d worked themselves into a state of agitation. “This whole fucked-up situation is out of control,” the mayor announced. Short in stature and powerfully built, Tanaka wielded authority like the Army lieutenant colonel he’d once been. Koa could almost see the silver oak leaves on his shoulders. Yet, he looked tired, and an unusually prominent five o’clock shadow darkened his face. “The press is running wild, printing crap like ‘criminally negligent,’ and that’s one of the nicer things. Parents are screaming for blood and Na‘auao’s head. The governor called me earlier and wants to take control of the investigation. And then there’s Cheryl Makela, God help us. The conservatives on the county council wanted her arrested. It’s a goddamn mess. And the timing shits. We got an election coming up.”
“We need,” Tomi Watanabe, the small ferret-like man who served as the mayor’s press aide, interjected, “to call this KonaWili thing an unavoidable accident—an act of God—a disaster no one could control.” Koa couldn’t help watching the ugly black mole on Watanabe’s right cheek jump around as the spin doctor carried on in a shrill voice. He and Koa crossed swords every time the weasel stuck his nose into police business. He’d even tried to get the department to fix DUI and speeding tickets for his friends and threatened to retaliate by cutting the police technology budget when Koa intervened. Neither liked the other.
“Can you sell that?” Ben Inaba, the mayor’s top political advisor, asked. Inaba had the polish that Watanabe lacked—carefully tailored clothes, a soft but authoritative voice, and an intuitive ability to ask just the right question.
“We can sell anything if we say it loud enough and often enough,” Watanabe responded. “We make our own reality.” As a press jockey, he knew what he wanted the public to believe and never let the facts get in the way.
“Then we need to put out a statement saying no one in government knew anything about a volcanic vent on that property,” Inaba said. More thoughtful and less abrasive than Watanabe, Koa viewed him as smarter and therefore distrusted him even more.
“Agreed,” the press aide responded. “And we need to get it out fast. A full-scale media blast—newspapers, TV, radio, and social media.”
Koa held his tongue, but when the mayor turned to him, he could no longer stay silent. “Remember the old military adage—never make a crisis worse. You say nobody in government knew, and it comes out they did. Then you’re fried. Better to say nothing.”
Watanabe glowered at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Koa kept cool and responded calmly. “Higher-ups in government knew, and the facts are going to come out.”
Watanabe jumped at him like a rabid rat. “How’d they know?”
“First, the contractors knew about volcanic activity and tried to cover it up. And the contractor showed the vent to someone from Honolulu, probably a DOE official. So, the government has a problem—”
“That’s news to me, Detective,” the mayor interjected.
“I just learned that fact, sir. The contractor used concrete—thousands of cubic yards of it—to cover up the vent. Cement costs money. That money didn’t come out of thin air. Somebody, most likely someone in the DOE, approved a big bill for several hundred thousand dollars.”
“That doesn’t mean they knew about the vent,” Watanabe responded.