Koa and Nālani came with fourteen leis, one for each of the fallen children. Koa attended out of genuine sadness for the victims and the community’s loss. With the investigation only secondary in his mind, he mingled with the mourners and listened for anything that might shed light on the tragedy. He sensed a seething rage bubbling just below the surface underlining the community’s shared loss. People came to honor the dead, but Koa felt a powerful groundswell of outrage rising like a rogue wave directed at the officials who’d let this disaster happen. When that wave broke, it would affect the power brokers in Hilo and as far away as Honolulu.
Governor Bobbie Māhoe and Mayor Tanaka vied to deliver the most compelling eulogies, with each man focusing individually on the uniqueness of each of the fourteen children and calling upon the community to support the parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends who’d never forget their loss.
After the service each official held a private reception for the wounded families, taking time to console each of the relatives. The governor visited the children at Kona Community Hospital while Mayor Tanaka did the same for the children hospitalized in Hilo. Although both men kept the press at bay for most of the day, Mayor Tanaka held a late afternoon press conference, while the governor returned to Honolulu.
Hawai‘i mayor Tanaka, flanked by his ever-present aides—Ben Inaba and Tomi Watanabe—told the world that Chief Detective Koa Kāne, one of Hawai‘i’s most experienced detectives, would command the investigation. “We will get to the bottom of this tragedy,” he promised. “And we will hold anyone who let this tragedy happen responsible.”
Immediately after the mayor’s press conference, Koa returned to the Kona side of the island. He’d arranged an early evening meeting with Howard Gommes at his home in Kūki‘o, an enclave of multimillion-dollar estates. A security guard at the guardhouse directed him to Gommes’s residence. Gommes, the Donald Trump of Hawai‘i developers, came across as brash, controversial, politically connected, phenomenally wealthy, and quite the showman. Working on his third wife, a showbiz model, he’d grown up the scion of a wealthy family and supposedly quadrupled his already enormous inherited wealth. Allegations of fraud and sharp practices swirled around him, but none of the numerous lawsuits against him had changed his behavior.
As soon as Koa stepped out of his car, a servant opened the front door and ushered the detective through the palatial, if gaudily decorated, house to a sundeck beside a sparkling infinity pool. The sun, dropping majestically toward the Pacific, blazed in a riot of red and yellow bands. A cool ocean breeze blew in from the moana, the sea. Despite Gommes’s wealth, Koa found the developer in typical Hawaiian attire—a tee shirt, shorts, and sandals—sitting beside the pool, sipping iced tea. Broad-shouldered with muscled arms, huge hands, and bleached white hair, Gommes topped six-two and weighed a good two-twenty. Sunspots on his face and arms suggested extended hours in the sun, most likely on Kūki‘o’s world-class, members-only golf course. His laser-like onyx eyes radiated an intimidating power.
A pair of giant Rottweilers lay on the patio near their master. One remained still, staring malevolently at Koa, while the other lifted its head and growled. Gommes barked, “Quiet, Dante,” but the black beast continued to growl until Gommes whacked it with a riding crop. The animal cringed and whimpered, but still bared its teeth.
“Someday I’ll get that Metzgerhund to mind his manners.”
“Metzgerhund?” Koa asked, staying well clear of the dogs.
“Butcher’s dogs. Dante and Virgil from Dante’s Devine Comedy.” Gommes smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression.
How appropriate, Koa thought, trying to remember which level of hell was reserved for those with Gommes’s avarice.
The man didn’t bother to get up or shake hands, but instead, waved Koa to a chair across a glass-top table. Pointing to a sweating pitcher atop a silver tray, Gommes said, “Help yourself to an iced tea. Damned shame about those kids. Terrible accident. Knocked the hell out of property values.”
Koa felt a surge of anger at the man’s callousness. How could he think of profits when thirteen little bodies lay on cold slabs in the Kona morgue and one child remained missing? But ever the professional, Koa controlled himself. “Tell me about your Hualālai development.”
“One sweet piece of real estate—or at least it was before this fiasco. Three thousand five hundred acres of prime land on the outskirts of Kailua-Kona, one of the fastest-growing communities in the state. Not far from the new community college. Great views from most of the lots. I’ve had my eye on that property for years.”
“You bought it in 2004?”
“That’s right. Those Paradise assholes got overextended, and we cut a sweetheart deal.”
“Whose we?”
“I own 60 percent of the hui and Cheryl Makela owns the rest.”
Koa frowned, showing his disapproval at the pat answer. “I know what the land records show; I’m asking who the real owners are.”
“I hold my 60 percent in my real estate development company. I can’t say how Cheryl holds her interest.”
Koa didn’t believe Gommes’s bullshit for a moment. Hawai‘i law required property owners to be registered, but the registration system had huge holes. Silent partnerships, often called sub-huis, permitted politicians to own hidden interests in land subject to their development decisions. “She’s got silent partners in a sub-hui, doesn’t she?”
Howard spread his arms. “That would be news to me.”
Koa wanted to ruffle this man’s too-cool feathers. “Did you know Hank Boyle?”
“Of course. He’s been the general contractor on a bunch of my projects. Damn shame he took his own life.”
“When did you last see him?”
“About a month ago at some dumb fundraiser. He seemed happy as a clam.”
Gommes was full of shit. The anti-depressant medicine bottles in Hank Boyle’s bathroom said Boyle hadn’t been “as happy as a clam” in decades. Gommes’s glib answer made Koa more determined to get under the developer’s skin. “You know why anyone would murder Boyle?”
“Murder him?” Gommes bellowed. “I heard he snuffed his own lights.”
“Well, you heard wrong. The murderer staged the scene to make it look like a suicide.”
“Is that so?”
Gommes seemed surprised, but the man was hard to read and Koa couldn’t tell whether his reaction was genuine—or faked like Boyle’s suicide. In either case, Boyle’s death didn’t seem to faze Gommes. Koa switched directions. “How about Witherspoon? You know him?”
“Yeah, I know Spooner. A really fine architect. Designed lots of local buildings.”
“You use him on your projects?”
“Sometimes.”
Gommes’s tone triggered Koa’s antenna. “You have a problem with Witherspoon?”
“Not really. We had a couple of fee disputes and I quit using him. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Gommes said it softly, but Gommes plainly harbored animosity toward Witherspoon.
“But he designed the KonaWili school.”
“On the DOE’s dime.”