It made sense, Koa mused. Arthur must have known about the vent and kept the knowledge from his mistress to protect her. Still, he wondered if she was trying to shield herself. “Why?” He asked more sharply than he intended.
“I didn’t know at the time but I now suspect he was trying to protect me.”
“From what?”
“The controversy and the risk.”
“What controversy?”
She sighed, a long mournful sound. “I don’t know the details, but just after Boyle started preparing the KonaWili site, he and Arthur had an argument. Boyle wanted Arthur to do something, and Arthur got really upset. I heard him yelling, and Arthur never raised his voice.”
“Yelling about what?”
“I heard only one word—‘never,’ like a primal scream before Arthur slammed the phone down. It was a handset, and he broke it. And violence wasn’t Arthur’s style.”
“Did he ever explain what Boyle wanted?”
“No, he was agitated, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He left the apartment. I think he went for a walk or a drive. I’m not sure, but when he came back, he looked awful, like he’d been beaten down and totally demoralized. A shell of his former self.”
“Did he explain?”
“Not really. He just described himself as a slave to the past. At first, I thought he meant architecture—how we’re still creating buildings with Roman and Greek columns—but later I understood he meant something deeply personal.”
Koa could see Arthur Witherspoon opening his soul with this woman. Something welcoming, profoundly emphatic, lit her face and infected her green eyes. Witherspoon must have found her a good listener. “Did he explain what he meant?”
“He repeated the phrase about being a slave in relation to my situation. I love my son, and I wouldn’t give him up for the world, but getting pregnant when I did was stupid. Arthur said we were both slaves to the past, but in my case, something good had come of it. Maybe I was reading it through my own lens, but I took him to be saying nothing good had come of his past.”
“Did you ask him about his past?”
“Sure. We talked about architecture. He was fascinated with the intricate rose windows of Gothic cathedrals. Every year he traveled to see a different cathedral with a rose window—the cathedrals in Prague, Reims, Notre Dame in Paris, and his favorite, the cathedral at Chartres.”
With his roots firmly planted on the Big Island, Koa didn’t share Witherspoon’s fascination with European cathedrals and prodded her to refocus on the trouble in the man’s past. “You know what made him a slave to his past?”
“No. As intimately as I knew Arthur, he never shared that part of his life.”
Koa turned to his primary interest. “At about the time Arthur died, someone tore his office apart searching for something. I don’t think they found it. Do you have any idea what he might have hidden?”
“Could it have anything to do with Howard Gommes?”
He hadn’t expected her question, and his interest flared. “Why Gommes?”
“Arthur had his private demons, but he wasn’t secretive with clients, except Gommes. Whenever Gommes called, Arthur retreated to his office and closed the door. In all our time together, Arthur got annoyed with me just once—when I accidentally walked in on one of his conversations with Gommes.”
“Any idea why?”
“I never understood, and after Arthur vented on me, I never asked.”
“And he wasn’t like that with anyone else?”
“No, most of the time he worked with an open door.”
Gommes had acted strangely at the mention of Witherspoon’s name. “How often did Arthur talk to Gommes?”
“Whenever Gommes called him. Arthur never sought him out.”
“So how often did Gommes call?”
“Hardly ever, until last year. Then Gommes called, maybe three or four times.”
“Was this while Arthur was working on the KonaWili elementary school?”
“Yes, about then.”
“But you have no idea what they talked about?”
She shook her head.
“Suppose,” Koa asked, “Arthur wanted to hide something sensitive. Any idea where he’d put it?”
She ran a hand through her hair. “Gee, that’s tough. It wouldn’t be in a usual place, like a bank vault. It’d be in one of his buildings and cleverly concealed. A man who designs Gothic cathedrals in his mind could create lots of hiding places.”
“So where should I look?”
She paused to think. “I don’t know. Let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with some ideas.”
When Sally walked him back to the front door, he looked into the dining room and saw a great Hawai‘i state seal painted on the wall. He stopped to stare at the emblem originally adopted as the insignia of the Republic of Hawai‘i in 1894. “That’s not your usual dining room decoration,” he remarked.
“Arthur’s work. One of Arthur’s first commissions. For the renovation of the East Hawai‘i Cultural Center.”
Koa knew the building well. “The old police station, long before my time.”
“Yes,” she responded, “police station and courthouse. Arthur supervised the restoration, including the restoration of the great seal mosaic in the foyer. It occupied a special place in his pantheon.”
“Why?”
“I think the great seal reminded him of one of his precious rose windows.”
As they reached the door, Sally gripped his arm. “Detective.” Her voice became hard, and her eyes blazed with intensity. He sensed strength and passion he’d not seen before. “I want to find the people who killed Arthur. I’ll do anything to bring them to justice.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DETECTIVE PIKI popped into Koa’s office. “We found a gun. Could be the Witherspoon murder weapon.”
Although extraordinarily industrious, Piki’s quick mind frequently leaped canyons in two bounds. Koa demanded details laid out in logical order. “Who found a gun? Where? And what makes you think it’s linked to the Witherspoon killing?”
“The gun fell out of an airport trash container. One of the sanitation workers says it smelled like it’d recently been fired. And they emptied the bin last week, so someone chucked it this week. Timing’s right for the Witherspoon shooting.”
Piki might, Koa realized, be on to something. “What make and model?”
“Beretta M9A1.”
Koa whistled. The Beretta M9A1, an updated version of the 9 mm combat pistol used by the U.S. armed forces since 1990, was also widely carried by police and other law enforcement personnel. It wasn’t a cheap street gun, and Koa found it odd that one would be discarded.
“Serial number?”
“Gone. Ground off, but Cap Roberts in tech support is working on it. Says a professional did it, but he may be able to bring the number back.”
Koa had judged the Witherspoon killing to be a professional hit and professionals used untraceable guns. “Where’s the trash truck?”
“Don’t know.”
“Find it and impound it before they dump its contents.”