Shimura Trouble (24 page)

“Yes, you do that; take everyone over, and I’ll check who’s there, and if they look OK I’ll ask for help,” I said. I didn’t want to be too far away, if it turned out the driver was just a local passing through who might prove perfectly willing to help.

“No, Rei-chan, that’s not a good idea. You go with Courtney and your great-uncle,” my father said.

“But Otoosan, I know the man who manages this land, and the one who owns it, too. Regardless of who shows up, I can explain.”

I couldn’t convince my father to leave me, though, even as the sound of the motor grew louder, and Uncle Yosh and Courtney had gone toward the craggy rocks at the water’s edge. They’d just taken cover when, through a cloud of dust, a dirty white truck appeared. It followed the thick, rutted tire trail that wound around to the back of the house and, sensing the driver’s intent, I gestured for my father to follow me from the back of the house to the long side where the bedrooms must have been. The truck stopped, and I heard the sound of feet crunching on the ground, then the slam of the truck door. Then the person stepped up easily inside the house, moving into the old kitchen crammed with rocks. We couldn’t see him, but I peeked around the corner, trying to get a look at the man.

He was too far into the house; I couldn’t see him at all. But I did get a better view of the truck—a Toyota Tacoma, its two seats slip-covered in blue and white floral cotton, and its back window marked with a Kamehameha School decal. The last time I’d seen the back of this truck, it had been crammed with the surviving items from Aloha Morning. Now the payload was empty save for several folded white tarpaulins, which I imagined would be used to cover up the lava rock once Kainoa Stevens had loaded what he needed.

I
KNEW ENOUGH
not to show myself—too much was at risk. I remembered Braden’s words about dying if he snitched. And now I felt anger build in me, as I remembered what Kainoa had said, and how he’d effortlessly gathered intelligence on my family’s futile quest. Everything was starting to fall into place: Kainoa’s mention of a sideline construction operation, and the nervousness he had shown about Albert Rivera, who must have seen him on Pierce lands before and suspected something.

It took Kainoa almost half an hour to carry the rocks he needed out of the house, and the worst part about waiting was knowing that I could have been recording it all with the camcorder, if Courtney didn’t have that with her down by the shore. Don’t show yourselves, I prayed silently to her and Uncle Yosh, who surely must have been wondering what was happening, for such a long time.

Finally, Kainoa’s heavy breathing and grunting stopped, and I heard a tarpaulin being whisked over the payload. The truck drove off, slower than it had come, no doubt because of the weight. When the truck had disappeared, I ran out from the side of the house and gestured for Uncle Yosh and Courtney to join me.

“It was the rock man,” Uncle Yosh said. “The bastard who get Braden in trouble, and won’t tell nobody the truth about it! I peeped around the rock and caught a glimpse—very big guy. Hawaiian or Samoan, for real.”

“Yes, it’s Kainoa Stevens. The guy who owned the coffee shop that burned down.” Now I was remembering Kainoa’s tear-stained face the morning after the fire. Just how bad was he? Was he grieving for Charisse—not just because he’d found her, but because he had some culpability in her death, too?

I was caught unaware by the sound of wheels on a rutted path. Oh God, he’d come back, and we weren’t in a position to get to the water in time. I saw the fear on my relatives’ faces as well, but the cloud of dust revealed a surprising sight: our battered Honda Odyssey. Braden had returned. He drove slowly all the way over to Uncle Yoshitsune and my father, and then stopped. He made no move to open the passenger door, so I pulled it open for us.

“I got lost.” Braden looked sheepish. “I couldn’t read the map and drive at the same time, and the damn GPS sent me in a circle back to this place. Then I got to thinking, I really should come back for you.”

“I’d say so, fool!” Uncle Yosh sputtered. “You leave us out there to…what, sweat to death?”

“It’s OK,” I said, helping Uncle Yosh and my father board into the blessedly cool car. I shot a glance at the dashboard; Braden had burned a lot of gas driving through the fields. Hopefully, we’d have enough to get back home. “Courtney, can you get some water bottles for everyone out of the very back?”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Braden said. “It’s just, when I saw where we were going, I didn’t know who we’d meet there.”

“Well, you were right to be wary. We met him,” I said, and as Braden’s eyes popped, I clarified, ‘I mean, we saw Kainoa. He didn’t see us and wound up leaving with a load of lava rock about five minutes before you returned.”

“A tremendously lucky circumstance,” my father said.

“Well, it’s my beiju,” Uncle Yoshitsune said. “A lucky year.”

But not for everyone. As I showed Braden the way home, I thought about how the first thing I would do, once I got back to civilization, would be make Kainoa pay for what he’d done.

IT WASN’T THAT
easy. Later that evening, sitting in the Kapolei police station with my father, Uncle Yosh, and Michael, a Kapolei police detective called Bill Vang told us he was interested, but needed much more to arrest Kainoa. They even pointed out that I hadn’t positively identified him at the scene, just on the basis of the truck and Courtney and Yosh’s physical description.

“Can’t you just put out a call to all police on the island to look out for his truck, and once they stop it, check under the tarps?”

“It’s five hours since you saw him. He probably already unloaded it at whatever construction site he’s working at,” said Lieutenant Vang. “And if there’s rock dust in his truck’s payload, well, that’s no big deal. On the Leeward Side, there’s dust from rock and ashes from fire and red earth everywhere you look and touch. Of course that payload’s gonna be dirty. My truck’s dirty, too.”

“What about a wire?” Michael suggested.

“Huh?” Vang responded.

“I could confront Kainoa, wearing a wire, and get him to admit he was the one who ordered Braden to work.”

“You think he’s going to talk about all of this to a haole? He’s either gonna think you’re a cop, or stupid. Better for the kid to face him, and get the direct instructions to hush up, or whatever. Yeah, tell you what, Braden wears a wire, and it turns out there is truth to this business about Kainoa Stevens’ sideline, I’ll talk to the arson investigator about it.”

“It’s too dangerous for him,” Michael answered shortly, as Uncle Yosh, my father and I all nodded in agreement. He continued, ‘Braden was too scared to come with us to see you this evening. How’s he going to be effective with Kainoa and successfully hide the fact he’s recording their conversation? You need someone with experience doing that kind of thing.”

“I could do it,” I volunteered, because the thought had come to me a few minutes earlier. “It makes perfect sense. Kainoa considers me a friend. He gave me his card, and wrote down his phone number another time. Obviously, he’ll meet me if I call him.”

“Rei, that’s nice of you to want to help your cousin, but like Mike said, there’s a lot to this kind of operation.” Vang sounded patronizing.

“I not only know how to wear a wire, I can set up a listening station,” I protested. “Tell them, Michael!”

In a few minutes, Michael had laid out my few accomplishments at OCI in a way that left my father looking dazed and Uncle Yosh quite approving.

“You willing to do something, then, day after tomorrow maybe?” Vang asked.

“Tomorrow,” Michael said firmly. “It has to be tomorrow. I’m leaving the day after that, and I want to be part of this operation.”

BUT BACK AT
Pineapple Plantation that evening, I learned that my job was harder than I anticipated. My father was distraught and had to be reassured constantly that the police would be waiting moments away, ready to take over at the slightest indication of trouble. He enlisted Tom and Uncle Hiroshi in the effort to get me to change my mind, but I knew what I had to do.

“I couldn’t do squat for our family, in regards to the cottage property,” I said. “But you know, this is more important. How can I not try to save their child?”

After a while I left Michael to talk to them, and I went into my bedroom, where after fifteen minutes of scavenging through my messy underwear drawer came up with the card with Kainoa’s various phone numbers. I rang every number, and either got no response, or a chipper voicemail message: ‘It’s Kainoa. Leave it at the beep, brah.”

He might be fast asleep in bed, but I doubted it. I left messages on the phones that allowed me the chance. My request was simple—and, I hoped, intriguingly vague. I wanted him to call me back because I wanted to see him before leaving the island.

Michael retreated to the Hale Koa by midnight and we all went to bed, but I barely slept, turning over thoughts of how the operation would work and how I could best lead Kainoa into an incriminating conversation—that is, if I could locate him. In the wee hours of the morning, I remembered the second time Kainoa had given me a phone number; it was on a takeout menu, tucked into the pocket of some running shorts. I located the shorts lying neat, clean and folded, with an empty pocket, in my drawers. As soon as I judged it late enough in the morning not to disturb anyone, I went upstairs to the washing machine and dryer, and found the takeout menu crumpled in the wastebasket there. Tom must have tossed it when he was washing the clothes during my illness, I thought, looking with gratitude at the number. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.

I waited until seven to call, and it was answered by a young woman.

“Who’s calling?” she demanded after I asked for Kainoa Stevens.

“This is Rei, a friend. I had a question about a building project.” I decided I had to say something, in case I was speaking with a girlfriend or wife.

“I’m Kainoa’s cousin, Carrie. I could take a message for him.”

“Oh, are you the one who makes the crocheted bikinis?”

“Yah. Why?”

“Your work is amazing.”

“For real?” She sounded warmer. “Kainoa left for work around six this morning. Probably won’t be back till dinner. He works a lot now, you know, because he lost everything in the fire.”

“Yes, it’s terrible about Aloha Morning, not to mention Charisse. Could you tell Kainoa to call me?” I gave both my local number and the cell phone.

“I’ll do that, but like I said, he isn’t really a building expert. He helps my brother—in-law Gerry with labor sometimes, is all.”

“Oh, do you think I should talk to Gerry, then—is he based in Waikiki?”

“Gerry doesn’t have a lot of time for talk. And no, he doesn’t live in Waikiki. He’s lives in Lanikai and got an office in Chinatown. Unless he’s on site, that’s where you’ll find him”

“Lanikai the island?” I was trying to recall the geography of the Hawaiian chain.

“No, not Lanai! Lanikai is a neighborhood near Kailua. Where you from?”

“California. And what was Gerry’s last name again?” I asked, although she’d never said it in the first place.

“Liang. They’re Chinese. My sister Randy married a Chinese guy called Chin, and his sister Millie married Gerry. That’s the connection.”

It was almost too much to follow, but there was one thing I had to verify. “Is that Liang with an I?”

“Yep. How did you guess?”

THE WIRE AND
microphone were undetectable, once I’d gotten it all inside the strapless bra I was wearing under a sundress with a tightly smocked bodice. I had friendly, hands-on assistance from Michael in a police station ladies’ room with Vang and another police officer, Jose Fujioka, standing outside. I also had a tiny speaker in my ear that would permit all of them to secretly communicate with me in the duration of the time I was talking with Kainoa. But the first step was tracking him down, and since he still wasn’t answering his cell phone, it seemed the likeliest place to start was with Gerald Liang.

Lanikai, the town that Carrie had told me about, was on the windward side of the island—the green, picture-postcard Hawaii. I drove Michael’s Sebring by myself through Kailua, a charming small town with huge old trees hanging over streets lined with simple, mostly 1950s houses; Lanikai was smaller, a neighborhood, really. As I drove along, Vang and the others were in a police van two blocks behind, but never seemed far, keeping up a steady travelogue in my ear. Apparently Lanikai had once been as unpretentious as Kailua, but now, the rich had torn down the old bungalows and replaced them with the elegant mansions that sat cheek-to-jowl. Almost every Lanikai home was surrounded by a wall and had a fancy gate, many of them crafted out of copper, just like the Kikuchi mansion back at Kainani. The wall around Gerald Liang’s house had been built beautifully out of irregularly shaped green, gold and gray rocks. Lieutenant Vang confirmed my suspicion that this was a lava rock wall. I parked, watching their Escalade go by and take a left on the next street, where they’d wait for me.

I waited for two teenagers carrying surfboards to disappear into the neighbor’s garden before I emerged from the convertible. Belatedly, I realized I’d left the top down, so I went back to the car to close it. It was sunny for the moment, but I knew that on the windward side, rain showers dropped by like uninvited guests.

I walked slowly toward Mr. Liang’s fancy copper gate decorated with dolphins—no, I realized with some distress, they were hammerhead sharks. I located a buzzer and pressed it, thinking what a shame it was I couldn’t just go to the front door, where it was harder to be turned away.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice yelled out of the speaker, making me jump.

“Hi, this is Rei Shimura,” I stammered. “I’m a friend of Kainoa’s; I came to see him—”

“Why you think he be here? My husband doesn’t run a boarding house.”

I was guessing that this was Millie Liang. Her accent sounded local—local and pissed off. I asked, ‘Oh, is Mr. Liang on site somewhere? Maybe I could track him down there. It’s kind of important,” I said.