After last night's luau, a light breakfast seemed called for, and around nine a.m., Burroughs and Hully-in their tennis whites, rackets at hand-sat on wicker chairs at a small round wicker table on the lodge's back patio and ate fresh cut pineapple and buttered toast, and sipped coffee.
This was an exceptionally beautiful day, even for Hawaii, Burroughs noted-clear sky, sharp light, fresh air. Hard to believe, just hours before, a young woman had been murdered in such idyllic surroundings. The prospect of playing tennis, within a few yards of where her corpse had been flung, a blossom ripped roughly from a tree, seemed somehow improper… even sacrilegious.
"I don't feel much like tennis this morning," Hully said, returning his china cup to its dish with a slight clatter.
"I was just thinking the same thing."
His son's brow furrowed. "Your friend… Detective Jardine…"
"Yes?"
"You respect him? He's a good cop?"
Burroughs sipped his coffee, raised an eyebrow. "Probably the best investigator on this island-that's why I called him, sought him out specifically….That and his honesty."
"So … the case is in good hands."
Burroughs said nothing.
"Dad?"
A few of the tables nearby were taken up by other Niumalu guests. From the expressions on various faces, it was clear that news of the murder had gotten around-and judging by the occasional glances he and Hully were getting, their participation in the discovery of the body was common knowledge … or anyway, common gossip.
"Let's take a walk, Hully-let's return to the scene of the crime."
Within a few minutes, after depositing their tennis rackets at their bungalow, along with their abandoned thoughts of a morning round or two, father and son were sitting on the sand-the beach again a beach, a crime scene no more, though one ominous blackened area, like a scab on the sand, was marked by the victim's dried blood. The steady rash of the surf, the understated thunder of it, might have been soothing-under other circumstances.
Hully sat like an Indian, while Burroughs had his bronzed, muscular legs sticking straight out, his palms on the sand, bracing him.
"Normally I would be content to leave this to John Jardine," Burroughs said, voice barely audible above the surf. "But John's only flaw, if it is one, has to do with his working out of the prosecutor's office."
"I don't understand."
Burroughs twitched a half smile. "Jardine's specialty isn't so much solving a crime as providing an airtight case for his boss to take into court. He'll dig in and do
the legwork, all the tedious stuff real detectives do… but he'll do it all operating from the assumption that that musician did the murder."
Hully shrugged. "It does look open-and-shut. Ka-mana had motive, opportunity…"
"Blood on his hands." Burroughs tossed a pebble at the tide, raised a single eyebrow. "That's the problem: I'm afraid Jardine won't do anything except dig into Harry Kamana-and until or unless he finds out that Kamana didn't do the murder, nobody else will get looked at as a suspect."
Both Hully's eyebrows had climbed his forehead. "Is that what you think? That Kamana is innocent?"
"What's your opinion?"
Hully sighed, and stared out at the vast blue of the sky meeting the ocean. He was a handsome young man-Burroughs could see so much of his own late mother in the boy's sensitive, oval face.
"Well, like you said last night, O. B.-Kamana was a hell of a lot more credible than that Kuhn character … but why would Kuhn have lied?"
"Maybe he did the killing." Burroughs nodded to the left, toward the foliage lining the beach, behind which the German's bungalow nestled. "He had easy access-as you put it, opportunity."
Hully was making a face. "What's his motive?"
"Pearl was a nice girl, but let's face it-she got around. And Otto, married or not, has a reputation as a playboy."
Hully snapped his fingers. "That makes his wife a suspect, too! Suppose Otto and Pearl were down on the beach, and Mrs. Kuhn caught 'em!"
Nodding, with a wry, rueful smile, Burroughs said, "Doesn't take long to come up with other suspects, does it? And there could be other reasons why Kuhn lied."
"If he did lie."
"If he did lie," Burroughs allowed. He wanted to share Kuhn's supposed status as "sleeper" agent for the Japanese; but didn't feel he should betray FBI agent Sterling's confidence.
"Anyway, I can see the problem with Jardine," Hully said. "As a prosecutor's investigator, he's already focused on one suspect-when there are plenty of others."
Burroughs glanced around, to make sure he and his son were still alone on the beach. "I hate to say so, but … Colonel Fielder and his son have to be included on that list."
Hully was shaking his head. "I can't believe Bill would do anything to harm Pearl-he was crazy about her!"
" 'Crazy' might be the operative word-suppose Bill found Pearl with another man, on the beach?"
"Well… I can see your point, but-"
"Were you with Bill last night? Can you alibi him?"
Hully lowered his gaze. "No. Last I saw him, he was on Hotel Street… plenty of time to get back here."
"And I know for a fact Pearl was looking to talk to Fielder…."
Quickly, Burroughs filled his son in on Pearl's visit
to the bungalow, and her request for Burroughs to set up a meeting with Bill's father.
"She asked me the same thing," Hully said. "Wanted me, or you, to arrange a meet. Are you thinking the colonel may have come back… or was still hanging around here … and she approached him, and… tried to present her case, for marrying Bill, and …"
"Can you deny it's a possibility?"
Hully gestured with an open hand. "What if you run all of this by Jardine?"
"I intend to … but I know how that Portuguese po-lice dog's mind works, and I know his single-minded technique."
"What do you suggest, Dad?"
Burroughs leaned toward his son, placed a hand on Hully's shoulder, gently squeezing. "Why don't we do a little… informal investigating? We can chat with people-many of the suspects are our friends, after all…."
"Unfortunately."
"No-fortunately." Now Burroughs looked out at the ocean and the sky, his eyes, his whole face, tight as a clenched fist. "The worst that could be said of that young woman is she may have been a little fast. She didn't deserve anything but a long, happy life. She was pretty and smart and talented. Any 'friend' of mine who murdered that girl is no friend at all."
"Dad… Jesus, Dad. You really were a cop."
He turned to Hully again. "What do you say, son? Why don't we split up, and do some … socializing?"
Hully's eyes narrowed, then he nodded, vigorously. "Pearl deserves our help."
"She sure as hell does-I only wish I'd been a little earlier last night, and could have really helped her, when she needed it most."
They briefly discussed who among the Niumalu residents and staff each would attempt to interrogate-without seeming to, of course-and soon Hully was heading off toward the lodge, and Burroughs was angling over toward the bungalow where the Kuhns resided.
As he approached, he encountered Mrs. Fujimoto, coming from the direction of the Kuhn bungalow. The slender, fortyish kimono-clad woman, her graying hair tucked back in a bun, worked as a maid at the Niumalu; she was not on the hotel staff, rather worked for a handful of guests who shared her services, Burroughs and the Kuhns among them.
"Good morning, Mr. Burroughs," she said, stopping, lowering her head respectfully.
"How are you this morning, Mrs. Fujimoto?"