“How come? Does this land Bishop lives on actually belong to the Trust?”
“Not yet. The way the documents are written, it’s his for life, and passes to his legitimate heirs. If he dies without children, then the property goes into the Trust.”
“And he wants to change that.”
She nodded. “Come on, I’ll drive. I’ve already told him what kind of car I have, so his guard won’t shoot me.”
I must have looked dubious, because she said, “Don’t doubt it. Apparently the guard has shot at trespassers before, but the police couldn’t prove anything.”
On our way up the coast, Terri continued to tell me about the land. “It belonged to my great-grandparents. My grandparents used to go up there in the summer. My father never liked it, and Bishop did, so he was happy to let Bishop have it.”
“Bishop never had kids?”
“Nope. He was married three times, always to much younger women, but they all left him-taking a chunk of his money with them, of course.”
“Of course.”
“He had a trust fund, but he hired an attorney from one of the big firms and broke it over some technicality. He drained it, and then started selling off other property that was in his name alone. He’s finally run out of money, and he wants to sell this land to a developer, who will give him cash and a new house on the property.”
“Sounds like a good deal for Bishop.”
“He and my father haven’t spoken for years,” she said, peering at the road ahead. There was very little traffic, but I could see she was looking for landmarks. “It’s the ant and the grasshopper thing-my father worked his whole life, managing Clark’s, building it up, and all Bishop did was have fun and spend money.”
I leaned back against the door of the SUV so I could look at her. “Can you change the terms of the trust?”
“It’s not the trust that needs changing, just the deed restrictions on the land. And my father, and my great aunt Emma, who’s the chair of the Trust, have the power to change those. My father wants to make sure that at least part of the land is preserved, though. That’s where I come in.”
I nodded. “The negotiator.”
“Exactly. Now that I no longer have a husband to answer to, Aunt Emma is grooming me to take over the Trust from her. At least that’s her attitude. She forgets I still have a son.” She sighed. “Anyway, this is my first assignment.”
“Is that something you want?”
Terri turned makai, or toward the ocean, off the Kam Highway at a barely visible driveway, narrow and rutted, between hibiscus hedges bright with platter-sized yellow blossoms. “The Trust gives away a half million a year in grants,” she said. “Mostly to education and family issues. Do I want to control that? You bet.”
“It’s a shame your family sold the chain. You would have made a great CEO.”
“Not me,” she said, pulling up in front of a gate with a crude speaker mounted next to it. “I saw how hard my father worked all those years. I want to have a family life, too.”
She blew the horn, and the speaker crackled. “Uncle Bishop, it’s me, Terri,” she said into it.
“Just a minute,” a disembodied voice said.
We waited, and a man dressed in a camouflage T-shirt and khaki shorts appeared from behind a purple bougainvillea a few hundred feet ahead of us. As he walked toward us, I noticed his oddly stilted gait-and then recognized him. “I know that guy. His name’s Rich, he rows for the North Shore Canoe Club.” I remembered what I’d learned about Rich’s habit of shooting surfers; that tied in with what Terri had heard. I didn’t want to tell her he was a suspect in the shootings.
“We’ll talk about him later,” she said. Rich came up to the gate, unlocked the padlock, and swung it open. We continued up the driveway, and turned the corner, to park at the back of the house. In the rear view mirror, I saw Rich swing the gate shut and connect the padlock again.
The house was long and low, plantation style, painted white with dark green shutters. A hipped roof sheltered the windows from the sun, and a gravel yard lay between us and a back door. Bishop Clark stood in the doorway.
He had aged a lot since I’d met him, which had probably been at Terri’s and my high school graduation. “He used to be so handsome,” she whispered to me. “Just devastating.”
The man before us was skinny and stooped, with straggly white hair down to his shoulders. But he had good bones in his face, and if you looked closely you could see that indeed he had been very handsome.
We got out of the car, and I stood to the side while Terri hugged him. “Such a young lady,” he said, holding her at arm’s length for a good look. “Very Clark.”
“It’s the way I was raised,” she said. “Uncle Bishop, this is my friend Kimo. I think you’ve met him before. We’ve known each other since Punahou. He’s living up here now, and I wanted to show him how wonderful this property is, and what a great development it could be.”
Bishop stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “Pleased to see you again,” he said.
“The pleasure’s mine, sir.” I did learn a few manners at Punahou.
“Well, come on inside,” he said. “I’ve got some lemonade, if you’re interested. I can show you the drawings.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rich come up the driveway, and Bishop waved him away.
Terri and I followed her uncle into the house. I guess I was expecting a rat trap, stained walls, the floor lined with piles of old newspaper, but the house was beautiful inside, flagstone floors and the kind of antique furniture that would have had my mother salivating, all made out of koa wood and probably over a hundred years old.
In addition to a couple of sofas facing a wall of glass that viewed the ocean, there was a tall china cabinet filled with Chinese export porcelain, and next to that a gun cabinet with a display of old and new firearms. I recognized most of them, but some were such antiques that I’d only ever seen pictures of them.
I was naturally drawn over to the cabinet. “Interested in guns?” Bishop asked.
“Kimo is a… used to be a police detective,” Terri said.
Bishop showed no sign of having seen a newspaper or heard a TV broadcast for the last few years. He came over and opened the cabinet. “Let me show you a couple of pieces.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a pistol. “This is the Colt Model 1860. The principal side arm used during the Civil War. It’s the oldest one in my collection.”
It looked it, too. Despite Bishop’s best efforts to keep the pistol oiled and polished, it had seen hard service. I admired it, and he replaced it in the cabinet and pulled out a rifle. “The Sharps ‘Big Fifty.’ Used to kill buffalo. It’s where the term sharpshooter comes from.”
“Cool.” I raised the gun up to my eye and sighted down the barrel toward the ocean.
“It can kill at a range of up to a thousand yards,” Bishop said, as I handed it back to him. The next gun was a pistol. “This one’s interesting. Japanese. Pistol type 94. One of the worst service pistols in history.”
It was ugly and difficult to handle. “Doesn’t look that great,” I said.
“Supposedly it’s capable of accidentally discharging rounds before they’re fully seated in the firing chamber.”
“Boys and their toys,” Terri said, as I handed the pistol back to Bishop.
“Here’s one you might recognize,” Bishop said. “I promise you, Terri, it’s the last one.”
“A. 38 Special,” I said.
“You got it. Standard issue for most police departments in the US at one time.”
“They’re still making these, but this looks like an old one.”
“At least 75 years old. I have some newer ones, too, but nothing all that interesting.”
“Thanks for showing me.”
“My pleasure. Don’t get to take them out all that often. Rich helps me keep them cleaned and polished, but he’s only interested in the new guns.” Bells started going off in my head; Rich had access to a wide range of weapons, including the kind of rifle that had killed Mike Pratt and Lucie Zamora, and the type of handgun that had been used in the other murders. I had to know more about Rich, and soon.