For Koa, the location provided the only redeeming grace. Mayor Tanaka threw the party at the East Hawai‘i Cultural Council building, also known as the “old police station.” Built in 1932, it once housed the district court and police station, where Koa’s predecessor many times removed served as captain of detectives. Slated for demolition after the police department moved out in 1969, the East Hawai‘i Cultural Council rescued the building in 1979 and successfully applied to list it on the National Register of Historic Places.
Witherspoon honchoed the renovation. His design preserved and restored the leaded glass top to the double front doors, the decorated ventilation openings, the four columned central front porches, and the great seal of the Territory of Hawai‘i embedded in the lobby floor. Koa always felt a certain pride when he entered the old police station and walked across the great seal, so perfectly restored under Witherspoon’s direction.
Originally designed by the College of Arms in London in 1842 as the seal of the Republic of Hawai‘i, the wording changed in 1900 when Hawai‘i became a territory of the United States, and again in 1959 when Hawai‘i became the fiftieth state, but its imagery remained unchanged. King Kamehameha and Lady Liberty still supported the shield-bearing Ka Hae Hawai‘i, the state flag, and the pulo‘ulo‘u, a tabu ball, pierced by a black stick. And the legend on the twelve-foot seal still read “Ua Mau Ke Ea O Ka ‘Āina I Ka Pono,” roughly translated as the life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness.
Koa and Nālani admired the seal as they entered the building. Then Koa, who’d memorized the floor plan of the original structure, led Nālani to the left front corner. “We’re standing in the captain of detectives’ old office,” he said with a flourish. “The sheriff occupied the opposite corner, and the only judge in town presided over a courtroom upstairs.”
She laughed, enjoying his trip down history lane. “It’s a far cry from the way things are today.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“You think it was simpler back then?” she asked.
“People haven’t changed much, but there are more of them, and they have more powerful tools to make mischief. Where a bad guy typically hurt only a few people back then, one fraudster can rip off thousands today.”
He led her into the crowd of guests. On his way to the cash bar to get a glass of wine for Nālani and a beer for himself, he caught a glimpse of Sarah Witherspoon. He supposed she and Arthur had been invited because of the architect’s connection with the building but thought it odd for the grieving widow to be at a festive gathering so soon after her husband’s murder—and her dress gave no hint of mourning.
At the bar, he requested a chardonnay for Nālani and a Paniolo Pale Ale for himself. As he was paying for the drinks, he felt a presence at his elbow. He turned to look down at Watanabe, the mayor’s press aide. “So, Detective, you stepped in horse manure.”
Koa sized up the little weasel. He undoubtedly referred to Koa’s visit to Cheryl Makela’s horse farm. As Zeke had already told him, she’d complained to the mayor. Koa found it surprising that anyone in the mayor’s office would care. Or, had someone in the county front office partnered with the horse lady? Or, perhaps, had an economic interest in the KonaWili development?
“Somebody stepped in something far worse at KonaWili,” Koa responded.
“It’s really too bad about the kids, but nobody can predict Mother Nature. The tsunami at Laupāhoehoe proved that.”
Watanabe referred to the disastrous tsunami on April Fools’ Day, 1946, that struck a school building in Koa’s hometown, killing twenty students and four teachers. The press aide, still trying to present KonaWili as a random act of God, had found a precedent. But Koa wasn’t buying.
“In 1946, they had no warning. KonaWili is different.”
“Really?” Watanabe said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“Yeah, prior notice and two murders make the events different as day and night.” Koa turned his back on the weasel, picked up Nālani’s wine and his beer, and went to find his girlfriend.
“Who was that?” Nālani asked as he passed the wine glass to her.
“Tomi Watanabe, the mayor’s press aide. He’s a snake, the lowest of the low, and among politicians that’s dredging the bottom of the harbor.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants me to drop the KonaWili investigation. Dismiss it as an unavoidable act of God, like the Laupāhoehoe tsunami.”
Her mouth came open in amazement. “You’re kidding!”
“No. He’s hiding something he doesn’t want me to find.”
At that moment, Koa caught sight of Mayor Tanaka, and they locked eyes. The mayor inclined his head, signaling he wanted to chat. Koa led Nālani across the room and introduced her to the mayor. “Ahh, why does the National Park Service employ all the most beautiful women?”
Nālani thanked him for the compliment, and Koa marveled at the mayor’s political savvy. He might be a political hack, but he knew how to win votes. With apologies to Nālani, the mayor drew Koa aside.
“You’ve seen the public outrage in the press?”
Koa immediately sensed the direction of the conversation. The KonaWili disaster put the mayor under enormous pressure with an election coming up. Shit, as usual, would flow downhill. “Yes, I’ve seen the press, Mayor.”
“This KonaWili disaster has blown the lid off discontent with the public schools. And these murders only made things worse. The public wants scalps.”
The mayor had to be worried about his own political future. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“The status quo isn’t acceptable.” The mayor’s eyes turned hard. “You need to arrest someone for these murders. You understand me?”
Koa saw no point in explaining he couldn’t just arrest someone off the street. The mayor well knew that already, and Koa understood the message—get on the stick and save the mayor’s electoral bacon. He answered simply, “I understand.”
“That’s good, ’cause you’re either on the team or you’re not,” the mayor added before turning away.
Koa found Nālani amidst the crowd and slipped his arm around her. “Goddamn politicians,” he whispered. “Those assholes drive me crazy. Come on, let’s get out of here.” He heard the anger in his own voice but made no effort to restrain it.
She gripped his hand hard. “We can’t leave yet,” she whispered, “not ’til they make speeches and cut the cake.”
She was right, but still, it galled him. The damn pols made him feel cheap. They represented the grimy underside of his job, and he resented it. Koa still seethed when an amplified voice announced, “The honorable Bobbie Māhoe, governor of the great state of Hawai‘i.” Heads turned toward the front doors.
Koa hadn’t expected to see the governor but realized it made sense. Senator George Kenoi, the birthday boy, chaired the powerful state education committee. The KonaWili disaster had roiled the whole education establishment, and the governor would have to implement changes. He undoubtedly needed all the support he could gather.
The governor’s entourage held the real surprise. Governor Bobbie Māhoe entered the room with Francine Na‘auao, the embattled DOE head. She wore a sleek black silk gown and held herself like royalty. Her presence at the governor’s side represented a powerful public endorsement. That the governor stood behind his appointee wouldn’t be lost on the other politicians in the room. Nor would it go unnoticed by the press. But the governor, like all politicians, had a finely honed sense of self-preservation, and his support for the DOE head made no sense. It would cost the governor dearly among voters with school-age children.