Off the Grid, page 9
“Raul is a very busy man.” Chavez spoke softly with a slight Spanish accent. “You could save everyone a lot of time by letting me answer your questions.”
Subordinates frequently tried to protect their powerful employers from the police, and rich men liked to pawn the cops off on underlings. Koa wanted none of it. “We don’t work that way, Mr. Chavez.”
“Then keep it short.” He turned his back on Koa and led him along a walkway to a modern building largely concealed behind a row of ironwood trees. “Don’t waste his time,” Chavez warned. They climbed a set of wide stairs to the second floor, turned down a corridor, and walked past a row of small offices. As he went by open doors, Koa noted orchid plants in almost every office. Without entering the offices, he couldn’t be sure, but the flowers appeared to be the same rare varieties he’d seen at Campbell’s place. Campbell must have been selling orchids to Oshoa. There was more to the Campbell-Oshoa connection than he’d first imagined.
Chavez led him to Oshoa’s huge, luxuriously appointed study. “He’s busy. It’ll be a while,” Chavez announced and abruptly left.
Typical, Koa thought. The servant borrows the airs of the master. Tomorrow might be different—Koa might need to interview Chavez. Then, he thought, we’ll see if he’s such a big man.
Large arrays of orchids, each composed of several plants, adorned a conference table, the credenza behind Raul Oshoa’s desk, and stands in corners of the room. The arrangement on the table featured multiple hairy green dendrobium macrophyllum orchids, and across the room a half dozen red star-shaped catteya araguaiensis orchids branched in another spectacular display. It couldn’t be a coincidence, he thought. These orchids must have come from Arthur Campbell’s farm. Was Oshoa, Koa wondered, the financial angel behind Campbell’s orchid obsession.
Looking around the elegant space, Koa took in a museum of sorts. One wall, covered with photographs and framed press clippings, presented a pictorial history of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, starting with photographs of the CIA-sponsored training camps in Mexico. Koa remembered Oshoa’s photograph in the Honolulu Advertiser profile, and recognized a young Raul in picture after picture, posing with his comrades-in-arms. Additional images depicted the loading of boats and nighttime shots of the sea crossing to Cuba, followed by a dozen pictures on Cuban beaches and war photos taken as the ill-fated force moved inland. Toward the end of the display, the photographs turned bloody with close-ups of wounded men and dead bodies.
Koa walked across the room to a row of vitrines along the opposite wall. The cases held an astounding variety of political memorabilia from several presidential campaigns. Photographs on the wall above the cases depicted Raul Oshoa with President Reagan and both Presidents Bush, as well as numerous other Republican dignitaries. Several of the pictures appeared to have been taken at the White House. Koa studied the pictures, and then looked around. Interesting, he thought. Oshoa had decorated his office like the Oval Office with Frederic Remington bronzes, a bust of Thomas Jefferson, and portraits of George Washington and Ronald Reagan.
Among the political mementos, Koa spotted pictures of several prominent Hawaiian politicians. Oshoa stood beside the governor in a picture taken at the ‘Iolani Palace in Honolulu. Another image showed Oshoa with Hawai‘i County mayor Tenaka at some official function. Several photographs featured various barbecues, picnics, and even a rodeo at South Mauna Loa Farms, attended by a who’s who of Hawaiian politics, including, Koa noted, Nāinoa Nihoa, the current Republican candidate for governor.
“Good afternoon.” Koa turned to face a handsome man with dark Cuban features and bushy eyebrows. Oshoa had to be well into his seventies, given the Bay of Pigs photos, but he appeared to be ten years younger. “You were involved in that observatory business,” he said, referring to Koa’s recent role in solving the murder of a young astronomer. “Chief Lannua speaks most highly of you.” Nice words, but, Koa thought, the rancher might also be signaling a close relationship with the police chief in an effort to intimidate.
“That’s nice to know. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Have a seat. I asked Chavez, the head of our ranch operations, and Rachael Ortega, my aide-de-camp, to join us.” Jorge Chavez entered, followed by Rachael Ortega. Maybe forty-five years old and twenty-five pounds overweight for her five-six frame, Rachael had deep crow’s feet around small eyes in a pockmarked face. Ribbons of gray streaked her short black hair. Except for the mascara and false eyelashes, she might have passed for a battle-scarred aide to a military tank commander. Attractive she was not, and her makeup seemed out of place to Koa. In his experience, ranch women didn’t wear makeup.
Koa wanted to talk to Oshoa alone, but given the political delicacy of the interview, chose not to press the point. They sat in chairs grouped around the conference table.
Koa took the initiative. “I’m here to talk about Arthur Campbell.”
“I don’t recognize the name.” With his chair at an angle to the table, Oshoa appeared relaxed. He spoke with only the slightest trace of a Spanish accent.
“He lived on a parcel of land up behind Volcano I believe you sold in 1999.”
“You used the past tense. Did something happen to this man, this Arthur Campbell?”
He’s smooth, Koa thought, and he listens to every word. He’s already asking questions, and it’s my interview. Still, the chief had instructed Koa to go easy on Oshoa, so he answered. “Yes, we believe he was murdered.”
“Believe?” Oshoa cocked his head.
“There’s not much doubt, but we haven’t completed the identification process.”
“I see.” Oshoa seemed unaffected by the news.
Koa glanced at Chavez and Ortega, but neither showed any emotion. “He lived, apparently rent-free, on property you sold to Hansel GmbH in 1999. Could you tell me about that transaction?”
Chavez answered before his boss could speak. “Lawyers handled that transaction.”
Koa wanted answers from Oshoa, not his minions. “Is that correct?” Koa looked Oshoa in the eye as he asked.
“Yes.”
“Who negotiated for the purchaser?” Koa again stared at Oshoa, determined to control the interview without interference from subordinates.
“A German firm of lawyers handled the transaction for the purchaser.”
“How was the sales price established?”
“I gave my lawyers discretion over the arrangements.” Oshoa appeared completely at ease.
“Why would you sell prime forestland to a Liechtenstein trust?”
“Why not?”
“For $700 per acre?”
“Land prices fluctuate.”
Koa frowned. He didn’t like Oshoa’s evasive, condescending attitude. The man appeared too cool, too detached, too unaffected by Koa’s questions.
“Isn’t $7,000 for ten acres with a three-bedroom house well outside the usual price fluctuation?”
“Land transactions are negotiated between a willing buyer and seller. It’s the free market.” Once again, Oshoa displayed studied casualness.
Koa sharpened his tone. “Did your lawyers also handle the sale of the adjoining 240 acres to Gretel GmbH, a Cayman Island trust, at about the same time for the same per-acre price?”
Koa had trained himself to catch fleeting changes in a person’s facial muscles, often tiny tells to a person’s thoughts. He caught the merest flicker in Oshoa’s expression and guessed he’d surprised the man.
“You’ve done your homework,” Oshoa said.
“We’d greatly appreciate your help in understanding these transactions.” Again, Koa bore down directly on Oshoa.
“We?”
“Yes, the police department and Zeke Brown, the county prosecutor.”
“You’ve already spoken to the county prosecutor?”
Again, Koa thought he detected just the slightest hint of uncertainty in Oshoa’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. The man was devilishly hard to read. “Yes, Mr. Oshoa. No doubt you would like to help us avoid a grand jury investigation with all the attendant publicity—”
“Are you threatening us?” Chavez interrupted.
“No, Mr. Chavez. I just want Mr. Oshoa’s assistance.”
“Why would a grand jury be interested in these land transactions?” Oshoa asked.
“There might be several reasons.” Koa spoke in measured tones. “The names, Hansel and Gretel, the timing and prices of the sales, and the fact the Gretel parcel can only be easily accessed through the Hansel parcel suggest a common purpose. Then we have the matter of price. Based on fair market value in 1999, one might think the seller dramatically underpaid the state conveyance tax. And finally, the grand jury might want to know whether Arthur Campbell’s rent-free arrangement relates to his murder.”
Koa caught no sign of emotion in Raul’s face, but Ortega shifted uneasily in her chair.
“You’re seeing ghosts where there are none,” Oshoa said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Koa responded.
“Raul.” Chavez now addressed his boss. “This has gone far enough, don’t you think?” Again, the ranch foreman shot Koa an unfriendly glare.
“It’s okay,” Oshoa said. “As I said, there’s nothing to this. I did a favor for a dear friend, for a comrade-in-arms from the Bay of Pigs days. He asked me to meet with Elian Cervara, the son of another comrade, and help him get settled on the Big Island.”
“And you met this Elian … Elian Cervara?”
“Yes, he came by the ranch. An odd, taciturn man. I tried to engage him about his family. I knew his father like a brother, but Elian said little. La oveja negra de la familia.”
“Pardon?”
“A black sheep. Elian seemed to be the black sheep of his family. And his accent left me puzzled.”
“In what way?” Koa asked.
“His family comes from Catalonia, but Elian spoke a Cuban, or perhaps a Caribbean, Spanish. I wondered why he hadn’t been educated in Barcelona along with his brothers.”
“Okay. Tell me how the land transaction came about.”
“Elian had chosen three parcels, three different parcels, each on the edge of my Mauna Loa ranch property, ranked in order of preference.”
“The Volcano property was his first choice?”
“No, not at all. It was his last option. The other properties encompassed historic sites, and I wasn’t comfortable letting Elian choose them.”
“Why not?”
Oshoa leaned forward, placing both forearms on the tabletop. “I’ve worked hard to maintain relationships with native groups. I didn’t want to offend them by relinquishing control of historic sites I’d agreed to protect.”
“Can you identify those other properties?” Koa doubted his question would lead anywhere, but he suspected that Arthur Campbell and Elian Cervara were one and the same. He was intensely curious about Arthur Campbell. Any clue to the man’s thinking might help him understand.
“Rachael, can you show him the parcels on a map after we finish here?” Oshoa nodded toward his aide-de-camp.
“Of course,” she responded in the raspy voice of a heavy smoker.
“How did you negotiate the terms?” Koa asked.
“As I told you, once we agreed on the property, I instructed my solicitors and gave them discretion.”
“And the price?”
“It may be hard for you to believe, but I viewed the price as irrelevant. I accommodated Elian as a favor to my comrade-in-arms.”
Some favor, Koa thought. “And the offshore trusts?”
“My solicitors handled the details.”
“You didn’t know the details?”
“Not until afterward when I saw the final documents.”
There was no way to disprove any of these statements, Koa thought with a sinking feeling. “Did the offshore trusts surprise you?”
“More displeased than surprised. Sophisticated businessmen routinely use offshore accounts for all variety of purposes, but such accounts tend to attract unwanted attention in American political circles. I try not to embarrass my political friends.” Raul smiled.
The man was far too slick for the usual interview approach. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Oshoa. Just a couple more questions. Can you describe Elian?”
“Maybe five feet ten inches, medium build, swarthy complexion, kind of a pointed jaw, heavy lower lip with a double gap in his front teeth.”
Koa instantly visualized the face. He’d seen it twice before—in the lava near Royal Gardens and in the portrait hanging in Arthur and Gwendolyn’s bedroom.
“If I were to show you a picture, you would recognize him?”
“Of course.”
Hoping to shock Oshoa into some revelation, Koa handed Oshoa a crime-scene headshot of the corpse in the lava field. “Is this the man you knew as Elian Cervara?”
“Ay dios mio.” Raul’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Dios tenga en su gloria.”
“That’s the man you knew as Elian Cervara?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have further dealings with Elian after the land transactions?”
Raul shrugged. “I met the man only once when he showed up at my ranch.”
Koa turned to Chavez. “And you, did you communicate with Elian?”
The foreman looked annoyed at the question, but answered, “Just that once when he met with Raul.”
Koa turned to Rachael. “And you?”
For the tiniest moment, the woman’s eyes went wide. “No, never. I wasn’t working for Mr. Oshoa when these transactions took place.”
Something in this whole arrangement, Koa thought, was amiss. He would bet his brand-new carbon fiber canoe paddle the hairy green dendrobium macrophyllum orchids on the conference table in front of him had come from Arthur Campbell’s farm. What were these people hiding?
He turned back to Raul Oshoa. “What did Elian Cervara, alias Arthur Campbell, do with the land?”
“I heard somewhere he grew orchids, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Did you buy orchids from him?” Koa asked.
Raul Oshoa flipped his palms up in a how-should-I-know gesture. “Housekeeping handles the flowers.” But Koa didn’t miss the fleeting glances exchanged between Rachael and Jorge.
Koa figured he’d gotten as much as he was going to get from these people. “Thank you, Mr. Oshoa. Just one last question. What is the name of the old comrade who requested this favor of you?”
“Ahh, for that, your prosecutor will have to convene the grand jury, and my lawyers will erect every available legal roadblock.” Raul held out his hand. “Give my regards to your chief.” The interview had ended. “Rachael will show you the map.”
Chavez didn’t bother saying goodbye. Ortega said nothing while she led Koa down the hall to a small office.
“How long have you been with Oshoa?” Koa asked.
“Many years.” Her words came out clipped and hard.
“What does he raise here besides cattle?”
“Nuts, papayas, bananas, avocados, coffee.”
“Tell me, where are you from?”
“The mainland.” She opened a drawer in a large map cabinet and searched through a pile of U.S. Geological Survey maps.
Many people were suspicious of the police and reluctant to talk, but this woman seemed more reticent than most, and Koa didn’t understand why. He tried a different approach. “What brought you here to the Big Island?”
She turned from the cabinet to look at him, and he saw sadness in her hazel eyes. “Something happened, and I needed to change my life.”
Koa sensed he’d entered dangerous territory, but, as was his habit, he forged ahead. “What happened?”
“My baby brother, my only family after my parents passed, was killed by the police.”
Sorry he’d asked, Koa at least understood her tight-lipped reaction to him. He said the only thing he could. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and Koa thought she might break down, but she turned back to the cabinet and seemed to get control of herself. She found a large-scale USGS map with the boundaries of South Mauna Loa Farms overlaid in heavy black ink and placed it on the table. She drew two circles on the map. “There. Those are the parcels. You can take the map.”
CHAPTER TEN
“WE’LL GET FLOWERS,” Nālani said as they headed toward the hospital to visit Mike Tolman. “At Auntie Anna’s.” Auntie Anna had one of the largest flower farms around Hilo. Nālani had known her since childhood and introduced Koa shortly after they’d met. He’d been charmed by the grandmotherly woman. Auntie Anna knew more stories of old Hawai‘i than most historians and told them with a flair that put Aesop to shame.
Auntie Anna’s flower farm lay tucked away at the end of a lane in the hills just southwest of Hilo. After navigating their way through a maze of gardens, they found Anna in her open-air workshop, protected from the sun by a tin roof. The women exchanged hugs, and Nālani explained Mike Tolman’s situation. Auntie Anna turned to the shelf behind her worktable to retrieve a copy of the Hilo Tribune. “Here. This story.” She pointed to an article. “So terrible about Gwendolyn.”
Koa couldn’t conceal his surprise. “You knew her?”
“Only a little. She was an artist. Someone told her about my flower farm, and she came to paint my gardens, maybe a dozen times. Sat right over there.” The old woman pointed a gnarled finger and gave a little shake of her head. “She was no Madge Tennent, but she worked hard at it.” Madge Tennent was one of Hawai‘i’s most accomplished modern artists.
