Off the Grid, page 19
If his speculation was correct, NATO Allied Force commanders ordered Sapada to conduct a clandestine incursion into the Belgrade Chinese embassy simultaneously with the CIA-staged “accidental” bombing. If so, Sapada had been sitting on political dynamite—the kind of material that triggered international incidents and ended the careers of military brass, agency heads, cabinet officers, and maybe even a president.
* * *
That night Koa and Nālani engaged in a charade. Nālani put music on their stereo—“Only Wanta Be With You” from Hootie and the Blowfish, popular when she’d been a teenager. They talked for the benefit of the eavesdroppers about the weather, the birds in the national park, and the upcoming Nihoa political rally, while carrying on a more intimate dialogue by texting each other. After dinner they went for a walk. Nālani had developed an avid interest in the investigation, and Koa felt she deserved to know at least some of the details. So he abandoned his usual policy of separating his job from his personal life.
He told her about the raid at the farmhouse, confessing that she had made him more cautious and probably saved Awani’s life, along with those of his colleagues. If she was suspicious that he’d called it too dangerously close, she gave no indication.
They continued their playacting and texting until eleven o’clock, when Koa texted, “Time for sex.” Nālani texted back, “Not with an audience.” He followed with, “Another walk?” She texted, “Kapu”—taboo. They went to bed, and he held her close, cherishing their relationship.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FOR KOA, POLITICAL fund-raisers held even less appeal than a colonoscopy. He went to the gathering for Nāinoa Nihoa only because Zeke insisted. Local bankers, lawyers, store owners, and ranchers populated the crowd of about forty at the East Hawai‘i Cultural Center.
Koa grabbed a beer from the bar and stood in the corner, surveying the crowd, feeling like the outsider he was. Nihoa, dressed in dark blue slacks and an embroidered Hawaiian shirt, topped with a maile lei, chatted with supporters. He appeared at ease, comfortable, and exuded warmth, spending time with each supporter, taking an interest in what they said, asking questions, smiling, and even laughing. A politician.
In his mid-fifties, the gubernatorial candidate carried himself with the bearing expected of a former military officer and exuded a friendly command presence. Few men could project Nihoa’s aura of leadership without a hint of intimidation. Koa tried to discern the man’s formula. He stood straight, shoulders back, and smiled easily. His face was animated, and his bushy eyebrows somehow softened the almost X-ray quality of his blue eyes.
Koa wondered what undercurrents hid beneath Nihoa’s veneer. Everyone, including Koa, had secrets. Most were only minor peccadillos, but Koa’s time as chief detective had taught him that many people harbored dangerous pasts. He knew only too well that supposedly honorable people stole, assaulted, raped, and killed. The world, like the Escher drawing on his office wall, was full of reptiles. And whether true or not, Koa placed politicians among the most two-faced of human deviants.
“I didn’t know you were a Nihoa supporter.”
Koa hadn’t seen the chief appear at his side. “I’m apolitical, but Zeke thought I should meet him, since he’s likely to be our next governor.”
“He’ll be a great governor.”
“You know him well?” Koa asked.
“A lifetime ago we worked together in the Pentagon, and we’ve kept in touch over the years. He’s smart, honest, and effective. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
The chief led Koa into the crowd around the candidate. Nihoa shook with a firm, but not crushing, handshake. The candidate said, “I’m a fan. You solved that observatory case last year. Great detective work.”
Koa hid his surprise. Not only did the man possess an extraordinary memory, especially since Koa wasn’t on the guest list, but Nihoa also knew how to connect with people on their level. Koa had no doubt the pol would be the next governor.
Raul Oshoa joined the group accompanied by Rachael Ortega, his aide-de-camp. Nihoa greeted the rancher enthusiastically. No surprise there. Any politician would welcome a billionaire with a history of writing campaign checks. The two men discussed cattle prices and the crop damage wrought by the coffee berry borer. Koa again noted the politician’s knowledge.
Oshoa’s aide stood attentively nearby as the men talked. After their meeting at Oshoa’s ranch, Koa had sent Piki to the Internet to research the battle-scarred woman. Born in New Hampshire with an Ivy League degree from Dartmouth College, Ortega had occupied various staff positions on Capitol Hill. Never married, she’d finished her career in public service as a congressional assistant to the House Armed Services Committee before becoming Raul Oshoa’s aide in 2000.
Rachael’s history puzzled Koa. She’d attributed her unfriendliness at the ranch to the death of her brother in a confrontation with police. That might explain why she’d left Washington. But why would a New England girl take a job for a ranching company in Hawai‘i? It seemed a reach too far. Maybe she’d tired of the northeastern winters or maybe Oshoa, himself a political animal, had liked her political connections and offered her a fat salary. Still, her move to Hawai‘i seemed odd for a political groupie used to playing in the big leagues. He guessed there was more to her story.
She was heavily made up and wore a clingy, silk sheath, revealing ample cleavage, hardly the woman he’d met at Oshoa’s ranch. She cleaned up nicely. He wondered whom she sought to impress. Could she and Oshoa be an item? She seemed an unlikely match for the Cuban billionaire.
He struck up a conversation with her. “Quite a turnout, and it’s good to see this historic building put to good use.”
“Yes. Nāinoa’s impressive. He always draws a crowd.” She paused. “This is a historic building?”
“Yes, my predecessor many times removed had his office right over there.” He pointed toward the right front corner and gave her a brief history of the structure and the successful community efforts to have it placed on the national register. He saw her eyes dart repeatedly toward Nihoa. At first, he thought his history lesson bored her, but then everything made sense. The makeup, sexy dress, her casual use of Nihoa’s first name, her attention to his every move, and even the excited glow in her eyes. She had a crush on the gubernatorial candidate.
Koa doubted it was reciprocal. Nihoa, an attractive, popular politician, with a multimillion-dollar bank account, courtesy of his wealthy wife, had a vast array of opportunities to cheat on his wife. Couples often made strange alliances, but Koa couldn’t see this pairing. No amount of wardrobe or cosmetics could put Rachael Ortega in Nihoa’s league. He found her imagined romance pathetic.
Still, they obviously had a history, and he wondered how they’d first met. He was about to ask, when a woman screamed and a commotion broke out near the door. Koa pushed his way through the crowd to find two people dressed in skeleton costumes and masks, splashing what appeared to be blood over the guests closest to the door. One of them yelled “Fuck Nihoa.”
Koa yelled, “Police! Stop!” and sensed, rather than saw, the crowd moving back, escaping the confrontation. He faced two protesters, but no one, not even the chief, came forward to help. He’d have to remember that.
The skeleton nearest to him turned and swung a blood-filled bucket at Koa’s head. Koa ducked and charged the protester, driving a shoulder into the assailant at waist height. His attacker was much slimmer and lighter than he’d expected. A female. She flew backward, released her hold on the pail, smashed into the wall, and collapsed to the floor. Blood spilled everywhere.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” the second skeleton, also a woman, screamed. She rushed to the side of her fallen comrade. Blood covered Koa’s pants from the knees down, and his shoes stuck to the floor. A press photographer covering the fund-raising event began snapping pictures. Shit. Nālani would see photos of him drenched in blood. Why the hell had he let Zeke persuade him to come?
Police sirens sounded outside. Nihoa’s guests streamed out the exits. Neither Nihoa nor the chief were anywhere in sight. Only Zeke remained with a grin at Koa’s predicament.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KOA HADN’T HEARD the unnaturally squeaky voice in a while, and it brought back memories. Jimmy Hikorea, an ex-Marine and park service archaeologist, had helped unravel the most difficult case of Koa’s career. While investigating a murder, they’d discovered an ancient adze makers’ underground workshop in the Army’s Pōhakuloa Training Area and ultimately brought a killer and grave robber to justice.
“You find another pile of quarry flakes?” Jimmy asked, referring to their first-ever conversation.
“No, but I’ve got a Houdini-class puzzle. Game?”
They agreed to meet at the observatory on the rim of the Kīlauea caldera. When Jimmy rolled his wheelchair into the conference room, he wore the same black jacket with the same “Federal Archaeologist” logo as when they’d first met. His hair still fell to his shoulders under the same black baseball cap, sporting the Marine Corps insignia. He shook hands with the same bone-crushing grip.
They got down to business. Koa spread Rachael Ortega’s large-scale map of South Mauna Loa Farms on the conference table.
“Let’s suppose that an Army officer—”
“The fuckin’ Army, again?” Seeing his friend tense, Koa regretted mentioning Sapada’s Army connection. Jimmy had lost his legs and his voice in a friendly-fire accident caused by a newbie Army artillery officer.
“The officer in question was tortured to death,” Koa said with some bite.
“Sorry. You know how I feel.”
“Let’s suppose this man wanted to hide the family jewels in this area.” Koa drew a circle with his finger around the property owned by South Mauna Loa Farms. “Let’s further suppose he chose three potential locations. Here … here … and here.” Koa pointed to the two areas Ortega had marked on the map and then to the parcels owned by Hansel and Gretel. “Finally, let’s suppose the first two areas weren’t available and the man had to settle for this site.” Koa tapped the Hansel and Gretel property.
“What kind of treasure? Small, big, light, or heavy?” Jimmy asked.
Koa ignored the squeak in Jimmy’s voice. He’d gotten used to it in their first case together. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s small, most likely a file of documents. So maybe these three properties have features in common, something that might give us a clue as to a possible hiding place.”
“That’s some friggin’ puzzle. Not much to go on. Why were the first two unavailable?”
“Both the first two parcels held historic sites the owner had agreed to protect.”
Jimmy frowned and stared at the map. An interminable silence followed. Koa would’ve gotten annoyed, but he’d seen Jimmy work out equally difficult problems. He wheeled his chair around the table. Then the archaeologist looked up. “You might as well take a walk. I need an hour to make some calls.”
Koa walked outside to the observation area overlooking the Kīlauea caldera. A cloud of whitish-gray sulfur dioxide–laced steam rose from Halema‘uma‘u, the half-mile-wide pit crater within the larger caldera. According to Hawaiian legend, Pele made her home inside Halema‘uma‘u, where she fought unending battles with Kamapua‘a, a Hawaiian demigod who attacked Pele with rainwater.
During daylight, the goddess inside Kīlauea’s cauldron of fire appeared to rest, but at night the glow from the boiling lava deep within turned the steamy, sulfur-laden clouds a bright fluorescent red-orange, and Pele’s awesome voice deep within the earth rumbled like a dozen jet engines. No wonder the ancients left tributes to the goddess of volcanic fury on the edge of Halema‘uma‘u, and more recent visitors donated bottles of gin for the fire witch.
For Koa, like most true Hawaiians, Kīlauea was magical—the place where the earth father Wākea and the earth mother Papa were still giving birth to the islands. Kīlauea, like the majesty of the star-spangled night sky, expressed the awesome mystery of nature and reminded Koa of his insignificance in the universe. As a man, he might live four score or more years, but Pele existed for millennia and created the firmament.
When Koa returned to the conference room, he found Jimmy hunched over the map. The archaeologist had placed red and blue dots on the designated parcels. “Water and graves,” he announced.
“What?” Koa asked, baffled.
“Each parcel has at least one year-round spring, and at least one ancient grave.”
Koa grasped the import. “That makes sense.”
“Why?”
“Our man had a major orchid farm buried in the forest. He needed a reliable supply of water. And,” Koa spoke slowly, “graves make good hiding places.”
“Dead-on. There’s a grave here,” Jimmy pointed to the red dot he’d placed on the Gretel property. It appeared to be a hundred yards uphill from the spring that supplied the Campbell orchid farm.
“How do you know the grave’s location?”
“Thousands of ancient graves dot the island. Hawaiians buried the iwi, the bones, of their loved ones so only the family would know the location. The maka‘āinana, the common folk, buried their dead in tiny caves, sometimes just crevices in the rocks. Several groups, like the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council, have cataloged known burial sites. The public can’t get access to the exact locations—for obvious reasons—but I tapped a friend on the council while you were out gawking at the crater.”
“I need to make another trip to the Campbell place,” Koa responded. “I need to see if Campbell hid his secrets in this grave.”
“I’m going with you.”
“I don’t see how …”
“I’ll use my scooter.”
Koa pictured the battery-powered, three-wheeled chair Jimmy had used to navigate the long tunnel out at Pōhakuloa. “It’d never make it through the mud on the trail, Jimmy.”
“There’s got to be a way. I’ll hop if necessary. How do you navigate out there?”
“I walk, but …” Koa thought of the motorcycle in the shed and the cart Campbell used to get supplies to the orchid farm. “Maybe we can rig up something, but this little adventure could be dangerous. I’m hoping to trap two Indonesians, real nasty dudes. They tortured the Army officer and killed the woman he was living with. If they show up, things could get hot.”
Jimmy gave him a thumbs-up.
Koa had anticipated Jimmy’s reaction. The ex-Marine was no stranger to danger. “But we’re going to wear body armor. These dudes set off one bomb and tried to nail a bunch of cops with a second. I don’t want you unnecessarily exposed.” And, Koa thought, remembering Nālani’s words, I, too, need to be careful.
* * *
Koa planned meticulously for the outing. He would use his Explorer with the tracker still activated, hoping to draw the bastards who’d bugged his car. Trapping them would be reward enough, even if his foray with Jimmy into the Campbell orchid farm failed to find Sapada’s secret. He instructed Sergeant Basa and three of his patrolmen to hide in the forest near the Campbell orchid farm. They were in place before dawn.
Koa, Piki, and Jimmy met at dawn at the Campbell place. They spent almost two hours preparing. Koa gassed up the motorcycle and rode it up to the orchid farm before returning with the cart. Koa pulled three body armor vests from the back of his Explorer. Each vest met or exceeded the NIJ, Level II standard, having been designed to stop a .357 Mag slug. He and Piki suited up, then helped Jimmy into the third vest, and everyone replaced their civilian clothing. Koa and Piki checked their weapons.
They lifted Jimmy into the cart, loaded his wheelchair, and made their way up the path toward the orchid farm. Koa drove. Jimmy gripped the sides of the cart with his massive arms and powerful hands. Piki walked not far behind them. They slowed to a crawl around the rocks and tree branches to ensure Jimmy’s safety, but he seemed unconcerned. Koa knew the archaeologist relished the chance to get out into the field.
The little caravan made its way through the forest to the orchid farm and then up the path along the aqueduct to the spring. After that, the path narrowed and became too rocky for the cart. Koa and Piki carried Jimmy to the base of a cliff slicing through the forest like a barricade.
“An earthquake, centuries ago,” Jimmy squeaked. “Fault lines run all along this side of Mauna Loa. A big shake left this pali.” Koa didn’t find the thought of an earthquake comforting. “Just the kind of place the ancients used for burials,” Jimmy added.
“I don’t see graves.” Piki voiced Koa’s unspoken thought.
“You’re not going to see tombstones like in a Western cemetery,” Jimmy warned. “We’re looking for some kind of cave or maybe just a hole in the rocks, most likely in the cliff face.” Jimmy pulled a calculator from his pocket and studied the screen. “We need to move about fifty feet that way.” Jimmy pointed away from the spring.
“How do you—” Koa sputtered before realizing his mistake. Jimmy’s calculator was a portable GPS receiver. Jimmy had located the graves on the map because he had the geographic coordinates. If he’d just given us coordinates, Koa thought, this could have been so much easier.
They carried Jimmy the additional distance. The man weighed 140 pounds, and Koa’s back hurt by the time they lowered Jimmy to his cushion, facing a twenty-foot-high section of the pali. He and Piki were sweating heavily inside their protective vests. Koa still didn’t see a grave and began to doubt the wisdom of the expedition.
Jimmy studied the cliff face, searching the cracks and crevices in the rock. He pulled his cushion from beneath his body, shoved it forward with the stubs of his legs, and hopped. Hop. Hop. Hop. He moved down the pali, stopping to recheck the GPS receiver and examine the cliff face again and again. Check the GPS. Search the pali.
