Page 53 of Tiki Beach
It was the careful planning of a woman who knew she was in danger but refused to be silenced. Thanks to her foresight, we were closing in on the truth.
But would what we had be enough to bring any of these powerful players to justice—let alone rectify the past? “We have to try,” I whispered.
15
The Kahului Police Station was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. The faint scent of a cup of Lei’s coffee, forgotten and gone cold in a mug decorated with the Maui Police Department shield, mingled with the lemony disinfectant that permeated all government buildings. Keone and I were stationed in Lei’s tiny cubicle office. The small space was growing increasingly stuffy, despite a ceiling fan that rotated lazily overhead. The blinds were half-drawn against the sun, creating stripes of golden light across the scattered files covering the desk.
Lei had installed us in her office with the cache we’d recovered from the bank and then shot out to try to pick up David Santos for questioning. She’d gone to his address in Kahului, only to find he’d vanished. She’d put out a Be On Look Out, but so far, no luck. She was now at the airport, impressing on the security forces there the need to detain Santos if he tried to get off the island.
Every now and then Keone or I would get up from the records we were reviewing to stretch. I liked leaning back to look at the colorful corkboard on Lei’s partner Pono Kaihale’s side of the cubicle; it was chock-full of family photos and colorful with artwork from his kids. Keone’s cousin was on vacation, which was why he hadn’t been around to leaven the investigation with his big laugh and bold presence.
Lei’s side of the cubicle was utilitarian, a montage of wanted posters and police bulletins. Only one framed photo of her, her husband Michael Stevens, their two children and a pair of Rottweilers, gave any glimpse into her personal life.
“Still nothing from the Coast Guard about a sighting of David Santos,” Officer Palakiko said, poking his head into the cubicle. Sweat beaded on his forehead, evidence of the humid day outside that the building’s struggling air-conditioning couldn’t quite combat. “But they verified there are no boats registered to the Santos family here on the island.”
“What about him getting out on a chartered vessel?” I rubbed my eyes, dry and tired from hours of scrutinizing small print and trying to understand what I was looking at. “David Santos would have access to something like that, with his family’s resources.”
“I’ll add that to our search,” the officer said, wiping his brow with a grubby handkerchief. “But that’s a lot of boats to track.”
“Keep on it,” I said. “If he’s trying to leave the island without using the airport, a private boat is his most likely option.”
As Palakiko departed, the squeak of his leather duty belt fading with distance, I turned to Keone. “Don’t you think we should listen to that recording from the safety deposit box? Maybe it will tell us something.”
Keone frowned. “I know Lei wanted to play it right away, but she thought she’d pick up David Santos and question him first—which has turned out to be a bigger project than anticipated. But won’t she be pissed if we play it without her?”
We both glanced over at the small recorder in its plastic evidence bag.
“Yep, she’d be mad,” I said reluctantly.
“Why don’t you call and see if we can listen to it with her on speaker?” Keone said.
“Good idea.” I called Lei and she was agreeable. I set my phone on the desk and hit the button while Keone carefully removed the recorder from the evidence bag. “You’re on speaker, Lei. We’re ready to play the recording.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
Keone pressed ‘Play’. A series of clicks and shuffling sounds filled the small office before voices emerged.
“. . . need to move forward with the development plans,” a man’s voice said, his tone clipped and businesslike. “The council vote is next month, and we need to ensure it passes.”
“And what about the old woman?” another voice asked. “She’s gathering those documents. If she goes public with them . . .”
“Pearl Yamamoto is becoming an obstacle,” a third voice said. A chill ran over me, raising the hairs on my arms: I recognized it immediately as David Santos. “We’ve invested too much to let her derail everything with her Heritage Garden nonsense. Those old internment claims need to stay buried.”
“I agree,” said another voice—softer, more measured. “It’s unfortunate, but we can’t let sentiment interfere with progress.”
My heart skipped a beat. That measured, reasonable tone was also familiar. I gripped the edge of the desk, trying to keep my expression neutral—I didn’t want to alarm Keone.
“And if she doesn’t back down?” the first voice asked.
“Then we remove the obstacle,” David Santos replied, his voice hardening. “One way or another.”
“There are ways to handle this discreetly,” the measured voice said. “She’s elderly. No one would question a health crisis.”
“That’s how you can repay your debt,” the first voice said. “But it better look natural.”
The recording continued with discussion of property values and council members to pressure, but I barely heard it. My mind was racing, piecing together all the times I’d interacted with the owner of that voice.
When the recording ended, there was silence in the office, broken only by Lei’s voice coming through the speaker.
