Tahoe Ice Grave Page 11

  Jasper nodded. “Alvin Kahale. The Tuna Terror, the other fishermen called him. He had taken a tuna skeleton and poured some kind of glue over it so the bones stuck together. He strapped the skeleton to the stern of his boat and it stayed there for years, gradually shedding bones here and there. The boat, the skeleton and my dad all fell apart at about the same rate.”

  “I think Janeen told me your father died of lung cancer. Is that right?”

  “Yes. He liked his cigars.”

  “It was fairly recently?”

  Jasper gazed at the wall.

  “Jasper?”

  The man gave a start. “A month ago.” His voice sounded pained. “He lived with me the last couple years. Then he went to the Holy Cross Medical Center. He hated it. But he had too much pain. He needed morphine. What does that have to do with Thos?”

  “Nothing. I was just curious. What about your brother? That was even more recent, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Car accident a week after my dad died. You’re not suggesting his death is connected to Thos, are you?”

  “Like I said, I’m only asking questions. The more I learn about Thos and his family, the better I will be able to see into his life and learn why he was killed.”

  I could tell that Jasper was getting tired. I asked if I could call on him again. He nodded.

  “Mahalo, Owen.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said as I left.

  SIXTEEN

  I was at the Holy Cross Medical Center at 9:00 a.m. the next morning. The receptionist smiled at me as I approached.

  “Good morning,” I said. “My name is Owen McKenna.” I opened my wallet and showed her my license. “I’m a private investigator looking into a matter connected to Alvin Kahale. I understand he spent his last days in your hospital.” The woman’s smile went flat. “I would like to speak to his physician. Can you please tell me who that would be?”

  The woman stared at me for several seconds, then pulled out a chart and ran her finger down it. “That would be Dr. Fujimoto.” She scanned an appointment book. “The doctor has a cancellation at ten-thirty. He may be able to speak with you for a few minutes at that time if you’d like to come back then.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be here.”

  I strolled up and down the corridors and rode the elevator, looking like a casual visitor as I noted the lack of security. There were several doors on each of two floors. None of them was locked. Outside each exit door was a single security light on the wall above. Except for the parking lot, it appeared the nearby grounds would be dark at night. The few people on staff had their hands full with medical duties and did not seem to notice my movements. I was back at the reception desk at 10:30.

  “He should be here any minute now,” the woman said.

  A moment later, a small man around 30 years of age approached from around a corner. He wore a white coat, walked fast and carried two clipboards thick with papers.

  “Doctor,” the receptionist called out. “This man is Mr. McKenna and he wants to talk to you for a minute.”

  The doctor looked up at me, then made a point of looking at his watch. “I’m sorry, I’m very busy. If you’ll call my office...”

  “Certainly,” I said. “But first I have a quick question. My name’s Owen McKenna. I’m a private investigator looking into a murder that is connected to Alvin Kahale.” At the mention of the word murder the receptionist inhaled sharply. “I understand you were the attending physician at the end?”

  Dr. Fujimoto looked at me with suspicion. “And your question is...”

  “He died of lung cancer, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anything suspicious about the death?”

  The doctor sighed. “I just acknowledged that he died of lung cancer. Short of learning the motives of a very nasty tumor, no, there was nothing suspicious about it.”

  “Could someone have hastened his death?”

  “You mean slipping sodium pentothal into his IV drip like on TV? Of course. We do it all the time. That way, the most lucrative part of our payment from the insurance company is cut short.” His derision was thick. I wondered why.

  “Doctor, while waiting for you, I’ve been through the entire hospital, in and out of two separate supply rooms and through the staff lunch room without anyone noticing. The outer doors are all unlocked and there is little or no lighting on the grounds. There seems to be no security.”

  “Last I looked, this wasn’t South Central L.A., but a tiny hospital on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.” A door next to us abruptly opened and a female nurse came out. The doctor glared at her.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said as she hustled away.

  “How long would a patient in Alvin Kahale’s condition be expected to live?” I asked.

  “Listen, Mr. Detective, you’re not a lawyer and this is not a deposition. I have no more time for your insinuations.” He began to walk past me.

  I put my arm out in front of him and leaned against the wall. “If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll get a lawyer and you’ll get a summons for a deposition.”

  Dr. Fujimoto sighed again. He was good at sighs. “He was on life support. We expected him to die at any moment.”

  “But if he had lived longer, you wouldn’t have been surprised?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “How long could he have lived on life support before you would have been surprised?”

  “At four months I would have called in my colleagues to check out the amazing living vegetable.”

  “So you believe he died of natural causes.”

  “Look, I don’t understand why you are pursuing such a ridiculous idea. The man was dying. He had a month or two at the outside. Why on earth would someone murder a dying man?”

  “Good question, doc.” I turned away from him and pulled out one of my cards. I picked up the pen that was chained to the receptionist’s desk and jotted down the name of the condo where we were staying. Dr. Fujimoto hurried away down the hall. I handed the card to the receptionist. “If you or the doctor think of anything unusual regarding Alvin Kahale’s death, please give me a call. Another life may depend on it,” I said as I walked out. It was a lie, but it sounded good. Then again, maybe it didn’t sound good. But maybe it wasn’t a lie, either.

  Street was gone when I got back to the condo. Looking around for any note she may have left, I noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking. I dialed the front office. “I have a message?”

  “Yes. Well, not really. A woman called just a minute ago. She didn’t leave a number. She said she’d call back at one o’clock.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be here at one.”

  I opened the refrigerator for a Coke. I was reaching for the six-pack when I stopped. It was on the top shelf, but had been moved from the right side to the left. I remembered the position from when I’d gotten a can the day before. It looked like the six-pack had been moved as if to see whether anything was behind it. I didn’t think Street would have moved it because she didn’t drink soda. There was nothing else on the top shelf and Street had put away the groceries we’d purchased, so she’d know there was nothing behind the Coke.

  I left the Coke where it was and walked around the condo. It was obvious that the housekeeper hadn’t been through yet because the bed hadn’t been made. I couldn’t tell if anything else had been shifted. I picked up the phone and dialed the office again.

  “The housekeeper who does our unit,” I said when the desk clerk answered. “Has he or she been here, yet?”

  “No, sir. I’m so sorry. We are short on staff today. Perhaps three o’clock? Will that be okay?”

  “Three o’clock will be fine. Is there anyone else who came into our unit this morning?”

  “No, sir. We had a plummer up to the unit next to yours, but not yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was still looking around the condo when the phone rang at five after one. “Owen McKenna,”
I answered.

  “Mr. McKenna, I work at the Holy Cross Medical Center.” A female voice, very high, Asian accent, frightened. No woman I’d spoken to there unless she was trying to disguise her voice.

  “Are you a nurse?”

  “I don’t want to say. I’m calling from a pay phone.”

  “You want to tell me something about Alvin Kahale’s death,” I said.

  “Yes. I overheard something the day after he died. A nurse was talking to Dr. Fujimoto. In whispers. The nurse was on duty when Mr. Kahale’s monitor gave the signal that his heart stopped. It was five in the morning. There was a no-resuscitate order on the patient. The nurse said he went in and found Mr. Kahale’s pillow moved out from under the dead man’s head. The pillow had been in place earlier and no one else had been on the floor. So he told Dr. Fujimoto he didn’t think the man could have moved his pillow as he died.”

  “What did the doctor say?” I asked.

  “The doctor said he agreed. The man was in a coma and could not have moved his pillow.”

  “What else did they say?” I asked.

  “Sorry. I have to go.” The line went dead.

  Street walked in as I hung up. “What was that about?”

  “If I am to believe this caller, Jasper’s father was suffocated and the hospital is covering up.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “It squares with the belligerence of the doctor I spoke to. Otherwise, I have no reason to believe it except for my suspicion that someone is killing Kahales in an effort to learn the location of the shrine. And the direct evidence for that is non-existent.”

  “Then why do you suspect it?”

  “Because Jasper’s father Alvin, brother John senior and son Thos are all dead in the space of a month, one a confirmed murder and the others possible murders. Being a detective makes me inclined to connect up the deaths. In Thos’s suicide note he mentioned being responsible for three deaths besides his own. Perhaps his grandfather and uncle are two of them. If so, I need another body.”

  “And the point of the killings?” Street said.

  “The killer wants the loot in the shrine. The more dead Kahales from the patriarchal family line, the more trips to the shrine. The killer could try and follow to learn its location.

  “By the way,” I continued, “have you moved the Coke in the refrigerator?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just curious. I thought it had been moved. But I suppose I’m suffering from premature senility.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The following morning it was raining hard when we woke up. By the time we checked in at the helicopter tour office in Lihue, the clouds had parted and the sun was streaming down through misty air. Street and I were driven in the company’s van out to the airport helipad where John Kahale junior was doing his preflight check, walking around the metal bird, doing a visual inspection of all its components.

  He was in his early thirties and built much like his uncle Jasper, short and wide with the bulky musculature of a bulldog filling out his brown skin. Like Jasper, John wore a loose, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt vibrant with bright reds and oranges in a bold, floral pattern. Street and I walked across the wet and steaming tarmac and introduced ourselves.

  “Aloha. A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, shaking hands, his eyes making a quick detour toward Street’s legs and black miniskirt. I noticed that his forearms were scratched and abraded. His trip to the family shrine must have involved a trip through dense jungle.

  “You’ve signed up for the grand tour which takes seventy-five minutes.” He looked up at the sky. “The weather was iffy at dawn, but it’s shaping up to be a great day.” He turned to me. “How much do you weigh, Owen?”

  “Two-fifteen.”

  “And you, Street?”

  Street turned and looked at me.

  “He needs to know for the helicopter’s center of gravity,” I said. “Where to seat us and such. Not that you weigh enough to matter.”

  “My thought, as well,” John said, grinning. “But the F.A.A. would have my license if I weren’t thorough.”

  “One-oh-eight,” Street said.

  “Then we can all sit in the front. Street, you’ll be in the middle and you, Owen, right seat.”

  We walked under the stationary main rotor. The long blades drooped dramatically under their own weight. Street climbed in as John held the door. When she was seated, John leaned in and showed her how to buckle her lap and shoulder belts. He removed a headset and microphone from a cradle on the ceiling and helped Street adjust it over her ears. I was next, climbing into the right front seat and donning my belts and headset. John walked around to the left seat and, after putting on his headset, spoke to us over the microphone system. He went through a safety speech similar to that which airlines use, only his was adapted to the helicopter. He explained how to work the doors in case of an emergency landing, admonishing us not to exit the craft until the main rotor had stopped moving. Once out of the craft we were to stay away from the rear rotor. Last, was the location of the airsick bags.

  John started the engine and told us that he was switching off our microphones until we had taken off and flown out of the airspace around the airport. He didn’t want us to interrupt him as he spoke to other air traffic in the area. Symphonic music by John Williams came into our headsets.

  I watched as he continued his preflight check, glad to see a thoroughness that pilots often lose as they make the long transition from earnest, young students to experienced old-timers.

  The huge engine behind the cabin’s rear wall was well insulated. Nevertheless, as it revved up, the cabin was permeated with a dull roar, much louder than inside of a passenger jet. The headsets obviously were not just for ease of communicating, but also did a good job of muffling the noise.

  John’s voice came over the headset for a moment.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, prepare for lift-off.”

  The rotor blades were now just a gray blur above my window. John lifted us off the heli-pad so gently that it took a moment before I noticed that we were airborne. We rose straight up about thirty feet and then drifted backward another thirty feet. John tipped the control stick a tiny bit. The bird stopped floating backward and began to move to the left. He rotated us so that we faced the direction we were moving. We tipped forward and accelerated rapidly, rising up into the sky, over the big airline runway and off toward the sea as music from Raiders Of The Lost Ark filled our headsets.

  Having a fixed-wing private pilot’s license I was always eager to ride in helicopters and was fascinated by the differences in how they operate. While the helicopter pilot possibly envies how a plane can nearly fly itself, the fixed wing pilot is drawn to the amazing maneuverability of a machine that can hover, fly backwards, and go up and down like an elevator.

  In a few moments, John’s voice once again came into our headsets. “Our tour of the island goes clockwise by agreement with the other helicopter companies. Best to have us all going the same direction.” He then began to describe the sights in front of us. Famous golf courses and hotels near Lihue soon gave way to mountains and valleys. A waterfall suddenly appeared in the jungle plunging down into a perfect lagoon. It was, John explained, one of the places that Jurassic Park was filmed. As we arced up and over Waimea Canyon, John listed some of the dozens of motion pictures that had used the perfect jungles and beaches of Kauai for backdrops.

  We rode in silence for a couple of minutes, climbing up above the ridge above Waimea Canyon. Waterfalls draped the canyon walls like strings of pearls.

  “My uncle Jasper told me about you,” John suddenly said in our headsets. “Said you were looking into the death of my cousin Thos.”

  “Yes. Your aunt Janeen hired me to try and find his killer.”

  “Any luck yet?”

  I knew that Jasper would have told John of my interest in the family shrine. If nothing else, it would be a warning for John to be on his guard around me. “No,” I sai
d. “I have no clues as to why someone would want to kill Thos. From what I’ve learned, his life seemed ordinary. The only unusual thing that stands out about Thos’s life was the secret family shrine on the Na Pali cliffs. It may have nothing to do with his death. But I thought it was worth checking into.”

  John said nothing.

  “I understand that Jasper showed you where it is a couple of days ago.”

  John looked over at me, wariness and irritation showing. “Jasper always had a loose mouth.”

  “If Jasper hadn’t told me, it would have been obvious anyway, based on the fact that you were next in line to learn the location and from the scratches on your forearms.”

  John glanced down at his arms, then back up. “Well, don’t think I’m going to fly you anywhere near the place. Unlike some people, I’m not the kind to betray a secret.”

  There was hostility in his voice and I wondered who it was aimed at.

  “I am concerned that someone else could be killed for knowing where it is.”

  “You’re kidding,” John said. “No one is going to kill me just because I know where a bunch of trinkets are buried.”

  “Someone killed Thos.”

  “Thos was not careful,” John said the edge in his voice growing pronounced.

  “Someone killed your grandfather.”

  “That’s ridiculous. My granddad died of lung cancer.”

  “He had advanced lung cancer,” I said. “But that’s not what killed him.”

  The tiniest movement on the control stick betrayed his tension at my statement. The chopper yawed as we rushed forward above the jungle. The erratic movement gave me a shot of adrenaline. I saw Street’s hand grip her thigh.

  “The doctor said lung cancer was the cause of death.”

  “Right,” I said. “But there are doubts about it. More doubts now. I spent yesterday morning at the hospital. My questions about the lack of security provoked defensiveness from the doctor and, later, a phone call from a woman who wouldn’t give her name. She said she was calling from a pay phone. She overheard a doctor and a nurse talking about your grandfather after he died. Although the lung cancer was about to kill him, he actually died from asphyxiation.” I stated it as if it were fact.