1 Murder on Moloka'i (4 page)

seven

Before my meeting with Dr. Goto, I made some telephone inquiries about him. Benjamin Goto had practiced medicine on Kapi‘olani Boulevard for twelve years, I learned. His license was in good standing and only one minor complaint had been filed against him by a patient. Goto’s field was infectious diseases. He had earned his medical degree in the Virgin Islands and spent one undergraduate year at the University of Hawai‘i, where, before her untimely death, Sara had taught in the law school.

On my way to Dr. Goto’s office, my Impala growled along Kapi‘olani, turning a few heads. I bought the teal blue ‘69 Chevy with only fifty-two-thousand original miles. Its big V-8 engine was what hooked me, but equally important, the backseat was removable, so my longboard could slide right in.

The doctor’s office was in a mirrored tower at 1555 Kapi‘olani near Ala Moana Shopping Center. Its lobby glinted with enough marble to sink the proverbial battleship. I rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor. A few minutes before eleven, I found a door with a polished brass plate: Benjamin Goto, M.D.

The posh waiting room contained the usual ferns, seascapes, and recent issues of
People, Good Housekeeping, Sports Illustrated, Honolulu,
and
Hawaii Business News.
A receptionist with a professional smile asked me to take a seat. Twenty minutes later–not bad for the medical profession–she sent me in.

Dr. Goto didn’t appear at all like the rugged outdoor type, as I had expected, but was a paunchy and affable man, probably in his forties. His ample jowls and rounded belly reminded me of a contented Buddha. He greeted me with smiling dark eyes.

“Please be seated, Mr. Cooke.” The doctor made a sweeping gesture with great formality.

“Call me Kai.” I wanted to put us on more friendly terms.

“Ben Goto.” He offered me his hand and we shook.

The doctor moved behind his spacious teak desk and directed me toward a matching chair. His medical degrees and certificates hung on the wall, along with a photo of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas–a slimmer Dr. Goto standing proudly before the glittering casino with a black-suited man in dark glasses.

“That’s a handsome picture of you.” I pointed to the Vegas photo.

Dr. Goto grinned. “Ah, yes, my salad days,” he quipped. “Shakespeare, don’t you know?”

I wondered why the younger Goto would be in Nevada with a character dressed like a mafioso.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Goto. My client appreciates your willingness to talk about Sara Ridgely-Parke’s death.”

“Such a pity.” The doctor rocked back, his belly protruding from his white coat. He spoke in precise, proper English. “She seemed a remarkably intelligent woman.”

“Apparently she was.”

“I regret that I could not render medical treatment, but she was simply inaccessible.”

“The mule guide confirms that. Neither he nor the police fault you.”

“Still, it was most vexing.” He frowned. “I could do nothing, don’t you see. Absolutely nothing.”

“May I ask where you were when Sara fell?”

“Certainly …” Dr. Goto paused to gather his thoughts. “I rode at the front of the party, immediately behind the guide. Ms. Ridgely-Parke rode near the back.”

“Did you see her fall?”

“I am afraid not. Though her scream was chilling enough.”

“You saw nothing?”

“The accident happened quite quickly, Mr. Cooke. By the time I turned around, it was over.”

“Was there any warning, any indication of something wrong before she fell?”

“Not that I recall. It was a tricky section of trail–steep and rocky–but other sections had also been rough.”

“Did you know the victim before that day on Moloka‘i?”

“I had heard of her, of course. During the Save Coconut Beach initiative one could hardly pick up a newspaper or turn on the television without seeing her youthful face.”

“Did you have any particular opinion about her? Or about her political activities?”

“I admired her. That’s why it is such a pity to lose her. Legions of people mouth pieties about protecting the environment, but how many willingly endanger themselves to further the cause?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you go to Kalaupapa?”

“I don’t mind at all.” Dr. Goto smiled with Buddha-like serenity. “I am a specialist in infectious diseases. Kalaupapa offers a rare opportunity to study Hansen’s disease patients. They could come to my Honolulu office, of course. But I wanted to see them first in their own habitat.”

“Had you been to Kalaupapa before?”

“Actually, no.” He gazed at me placidly. “But I had always desired to go.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“One thing leads to another. Time goes by.” He managed two clichés in one breath.

“Did you study any patients at Kalaupapa?” I asked.

“This first time I merely toured the colony. When I return again I will make arrangements to meet with several patients.”

“When will that be?” I couldn’t help wondering, given his vague excuse for putting off a first trip.

“Next month, if I can manage,” Goto said.

“One final question.” I studied his dark eyes. “Was there anything to suggest to you that Sara’s death was not an accident?”

“Not an accident?” Dr. Goto shook his head slowly in apparent disbelief. “How could it be anything else?”

“I’m not sure, doctor. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Highly unlikely, unless someone stepped up behind her and …”

“Yes, go on.”

“But if that were so, how would one account for the mule’s broken leg?”

“Good question.” I handed him the photo of Parke. “Have you ever seen this man?”

He glanced at the snapshot. “I do not believe so.”

“You didn’t see him on Moloka‘i the day of Sara’s death?”

Dr. Goto peered at the photograph again. He turned it so the fluorescent lights would illuminate the snapshot from different angles. Finally he shrugged his sloping shoulders. “No, I did not see him on Moloka‘i.” He returned the photo.

“Here’s my card.” I handed it to him. “If you remember anything more about the incident, would you please call me?”

“I will be delighted to help in any way.”

I rose and thanked him. “You go much to Las Vegas?” I gestured again to the Caesar’s Palace photo on his wall.

“Las Vegas is a fool’s paradise,” he pontificated. “I avoid it like the plague.”

“You’ll hang onto more of your money that way.” I winked, noting two more clichés.

He smiled his amiable smile as I walked out.

eight

Later that afternoon I called Adrienne to report on the interview with Dr. Goto. I told her that if I had read the doctor right, he honestly didn’t know Parke. I was still skeptical, though, about his reasons for taking so long to visit a place so important to his work.

Why would a well-paid physician delay for a dozen years an inexpensive neighbor-island trip? Also suspect was his means of transportation. If Goto were initiating a new research project, wouldn’t he have flown to the tiny airstrip that serves Kalaupapa’s medical staff, rather than squander time riding a mule like a leisurely tourist?

These things might have nothing to do with the case, but they struck me as odd. Nonetheless, Goto lacked plausible means of murdering Sara and, to all appearances, he lacked a motive as well.

I then called the next two witnesses: Heather Linborg, a masseuse employed by the Wailea Princess Resort on Maui, and Milton Yu, who grew orchids on the Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island. Fortunately, both agreed to see me on short notice. Unfortunately, the two appointments could be arranged only on the same day, Saturday, and just a few hours apart.

By the time I returned to my apartment, I was ready to surf. My answering machine was blinking, but could wait. I changed quickly into my board shorts.

Surfing relieves the stresses of my detective work and even helps me solve cases. Sherlock Holmes had his pipe–I have my surfboard. Floating on the glassy sea, scanning the blue horizon for the perfect wave, sometimes I drift into a kind of trance. From there I can disentangle the most intricate web.

When my wave finally rolls in, instinct takes over. In one motion I swing the board around, stroke, and rise. Slip-sliding down the thundering cascade, perched on a thin slice of balsa and foam, I find a precarious balance.

That’s what surfing and my job are all about: balance.

I grabbed my keys and was heading out the door when my conscience nagged me.
The answering machine.
I stepped back in, one hand still on the handle, and pressed Play.

“Hi there,” said the coy, sexy voice. “How’s my surfer boy?”

My girlfriend, Niki, calling from California.

“I’ve got some bad news …” She made a little pouting sound. “My flight schedule the next few weeks is murder. Afraid I can’t come and see you, baby. I really want to, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

Niki was a Los Angeles-based flight attendant who popped into Honolulu once or twice a month. She was a true California girl: blunt-cut blonde, twenty-seven, and ever ready for fun. Her photo in a string bikini and beaming a heartbreaking smile sits on my nightstand. My cousin Matthew had once called Niki a “fox”–he meant, I assumed, “good looking,” rather than “cunning” and “sly,” but he didn’t say which.

Niki had requested a home base change, from Los Angeles to Honolulu, so we could spend more time together. Until then, she continued to fly between the West Coast and Denver and Indianapolis. Our relationship was intense but sporadic, like a night of fireworks followed by a month of rain.

I felt sorrier than she did–for myself anyway. I wandered into the kitchen to warm up some Chinese leftovers, and carried them to my
lānai.
On the forty-fifth floor of the Waikīkī Edgewater, you can see for miles. “Edgewater” is a misnomer, since this tower sits nearly a half mile inland from the beach– unless you count the polluted Ala Wai Canal, which the building does indeed border.

My place resembles a Waikīkī hotel room, with kitchen and bath at one end and
lānai
at the other. All that’s missing to round out the hotel effect are those tiny complimentary bottles of shampoo, aftershave, and mouthwash. I haven’t always lived in Waikīkī. I came here only about a year ago from a cottage in the lush Nu‘uanu Valley, just off the Pali Highway. The landlord wouldn’t renew my lease–too many broken windows, he had said. And bullet holes in the clapboards. I tried to tell him the damage wasn’t my fault, exactly. The friends of a scam artist I had helped to convict decided to get even. Their shots had missed me, but riddled the cottage.

After the landlord booted me I decided to seek the anonymity and round-the-clock security of a Waikīkī condo. Equally compelling were close proximity to O‘ahu’s most consistent breaks and easy access for Niki. Her airline provided free transportation between the airport and Waikīkī, dropping her a half block from my building. Since Niki’s visits were typically brief–less than twenty-four hours–my new location meant more time together. That is, when she was in town, which was becoming less often.

Picking at the lukewarm lemon chicken with my chopsticks, I opened Friday’s
Advertiser
to the surf forecast, which promised two-to-four-foot waves on the south shore. That was all the motivation I needed. On my way out the door, I picked up the phone and, against my better judgment, called Niki back.

Her phone rang and rang. Then a sleepy-sounding man with a gruff voice answered, saying that I had the wrong number. I could have sworn I dialed correctly.

I phoned her again. This time I got Niki’s answering machine. I told her I missed her and asked when I would see her again.

After hanging up I had a sinking feeling. Niki was indeed a fox–maybe both kinds. I imagined love-hungry corporation men aboard her flights to Denver and Indianapolis, drooling over my California girl.

I didn’t often think about what Niki did when we were apart. I didn’t let myself. Now I began to wonder.

Within minutes I was paddling my surfboard to my favorite spot in Waikīkī called Populars, a quarter mile offshore of the Sheraton. I navigated the crowded shore break. In Waikīkī, local surfers have to compete for waves with tourists swimming and cavorting on various watercraft. But farther offshore the crowd thins.

I paddled by the crowd toward the long, hollow, fast-breaking rights of Pops. Out here the water is a deep green and the swells come sweeping in. I rode the chest-high waves until it was almost too dark to see, reinvigorating my travel-numbed body and reviving my dampened spirits.

But the surfing brought no new insights into my case. The one revelation of my Moloka‘i trip–J. Gregory Parke’s appearance at Kalaupapa the day before Sara’s death–had yet to be explained. Even if I accepted Adrienne’s questionable premise that he had killed Sara, the tougher question still remained: How could he have done it?

When Sara’s mule had stumbled, catapulting her down the
pali
to her death, Parke was not among her fellow riders. Could he have enlisted one or more of them to push, trip, or spook the mule in Kaluna’s presence? Dr. Goto was an unlikely accomplice, even if his motives for going to Kaluapapa were questionable. The other three witnesses remained to been seen.