Page 28 of Tiki Beach
“In the glove compartment.”
I reached in and retrieved a small but powerful tactical light, then fished in my purse for the leather case I’d started carrying months ago. Lock picking was a useful skill for a postal employee who occasionally dealt with stuck mailboxes as well as her own private investigator business.
“You know,” Keone said, watching me unzip the case to reveal the slim metal tools inside, “you were pretty hard on Pua for doing exactly what you’re about to do.”
“That’s different,” I protested. “She was satisfying her curiosity. We’re investigating an attempted murder.”
“Uh-huh,” he said with a twinkle.
Mr. K’s twinkle was one of my favorite things, but I was getting grumpy with my conscience acting up. “Are you going to help or just provide give me bad ideas and then provide commentary?”
“Both. I’m a multitasker.”
The museum’s back door was solid but old, its lock a simple deadbolt that presented little challenge. The lock clicked open with satisfying ease, and I turned the handle, edgy with the knowledge that we were definitely breaking a few laws.
“We’re in,” I whispered. “Now we just need to find the archives without turning on any lights that might be visible from outside.”
The museum was eerily quiet, the displays creating shadowy silhouettes in the dim light filtering through the windows. We tiptoed through the main gallery, our footsteps muffled on lauhala mats covering the wooden floors.
The research room was at the back of the building, and we made our way there by the beam of Keone’s flashlight. I made sure the blackout blinds were down, before turning on a light.
“Leilani showed us the Yamamoto Collection earlier,” I said, scanning the cabinet labels. “Now we need to look for anything related to Felix Santos and the processing center.”
We found the cabinet marked “Internment Records – Maui County” and donned white gloves from the nearby box. We began carefully sifting through the files.
Time seemed to stretch as we worked methodically through decades-old documents, the only sounds our breathing and the occasional crackle of paper.
“Look at this,” Keone said after about twenty minutes. He’d found a folder labeled “Processing Center Staff – 1942-1943” and was examining a typewritten roster. “Felix Santos is listed as ‘Civilian Liaison – Security Division.’”
“And here’s something interesting,” I said, poring over a different file. “Pearl’s father, Takeo Yamamoto, is listed as a translator for military intelligence.”
“A translator?” Keone moved to look over my shoulder. “That’s not something they would typically advertise about Japanese-Americans during internment.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, reading further. “According to this, he was recruited because of his fluency in several Japanese dialects. He worked with military intelligence to translate intercepted communications.”
“He was helping the American war effort while his family was being detained on their own property,” Keone said, the irony evident in his voice. “Ouch.”
“And look who was assigned as his military police escort,” I said, pointing to a notation on the document. “Corporal Felix Santos.”
“They knew each other,” Keone said slowly. “And not just as administrator and detainee.”
“The plot thickens,” I murmured, carefully photographing the document with my phone.
We continued searching, and in a folder marked “Personal Correspondences – Restricted,” I found a letter that made my pulse quicken. It was from a military commander to his superior, dated September 1942:
“Regarding the incident at Processing Center #3 on August 12, I have concluded my investigation. While the death of detainee Hiroshi Tanaka was ruled accidental by the medical examiner, I find Civilian Liaison Santos’s account of events inconsistent with witness testimony. Translator Yamamoto’s statement is particularly concerning, as he alleges Santos confiscated valuable items from multiple detainees, including Tanaka, who protested the seizure of a family heirloom before his ‘fatal fall.’ I recommend Santos be reassigned pending further investigation.”
“This is it,” I breathed. “This had to be what Pearl found. Evidence that Felix Santos was involved in the death of a detainee. And, that her father witnessed it.”
“There’s more,” Keone said, pulling out another folder labeled “Post-War Property Claims.” Inside was a detailed record of items reported missing by Japanese-American families after internment—jewelry, art, ceremonial items, family heirlooms—along with a handwritten note from Takeo Yamamoto listing items he had personally witnessed being confiscated by Felix Santos.
“He was stealing from people who had already lost everything.” A surge of anger on behalf of those long-ago victims lit up my nervous system.
“And at least one person died trying to stop him,” Keone added grimly.
As we continued searching, another document caught my eye—a letter from Pearl’s father to a lawyer in Honolulu, dated 1946:
“I have secured certain evidence regarding F.S.’s activities at the Center, including his military identification which he lost during an altercation with H.T. Should he continue to pursue his fraudulent claim to our property, I am prepared to reveal everything I know about the events of August 12, 1942.”
