This reminded me of Cook County jail, who let the likes of the bootlegging Druggan brothers in and out at will, and neither the jailers nor the Druggans were Hawaiians.
“But the trustees didn’t bother to come back,” I said.
“Once they got out,” Jardine said, “they decided to split up and take their chances on their own. We caught Kaikapu the next day.”
“But Lyman’s still at large.”
Jardine’s mouth twitched again. “The bastard mugged a couple out parking, tied the guy up to a fence with fishing line, raped the woman, took a buck and a quarter out of her purse, and then drove her home.”
“Thoughtful fella.”
“And he’s been leading us a goddamn merry chase ever since.”
“You’re still on the case?”
Jardine sipped his coffee. “Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
Jardine dug in his pocket for a pack of Lucky Strikes—presumably not the ones found at the crime scene. “The governor appointed Major Ross to head up a Territorial Police Force.”
“Just to track this jailbird down?”
“No.” He lighted up the Lucky, exhaled smoke through his nose, echoing the dragon on the table. “We’re in the middle of a departmental shake-up here, most of it due to the screwups in the Massie case. Heads are rolling daily. This Territorial Force is supposed to pick up the slack.”
“Who are these temporary coppers?”
“Major Ross has a group he’s picked from his National Guard members plus some Federal Prohibition Agents and a few American Legion volunteers.”
Funny. Joe Kahahawai had served in the National Guard under Major Ross; it had been Mrs. Fortescue’s fake summons from Ross that summoned Big Joe to his death.
Jardine continued, “I’m liaison between Major Ross’s group and the PD.”
I grunted a laugh. “Only all the king’s horses and all the king’s men haven’t found this raping murderer.”
Jardine nodded. “But we’ll get him.”
“Any sightings? Any other crimes?”
“Enough sightings to believe Lyman hasn’t left the Island. No more rapes, no major thefts credited to him. He’s gone way underground. Probably in the hills.”
“Well, if you’re off the Massie case, does that mean I can’t ask you to chase down a lead for me?”
Jardine’s eyes flashed. “Not at all. What’d you come up with?”
I sat forward and smiled just a little. “Are you aware that right before she went out the Ala Wai door, Thalia had a little chat with a kanaka?”
Jardine frowned in interest. “New one on me. Where you’d get this?”
“I’m a detective.”
That amused Chang; at least, he smiled a little.
“His name’s Sammy,” I went on, “and he’s some kind of musician with a band on Maui.” I got out my little notepad and read off the name: “Joe Crawford’s band. Are there any coppers on Maui you can check with?”
Jardine was nodding, getting out his own notebook to write down the names.
“Excuse me,” a male voice intoned from behind us; it was deep and rang with authority.
The big man standing in the doorway of one of the glassed-in offices behind Jardine had the leanly muscular frame of a football linebacker and the pleasant, patient smile of a parish priest. Angularly handsome, kindly features rode a bucket skull, Brylcreemed black hair touched at the temples with gray. Whereas most of the detectives wandering through the Detective Bureau were Hawaiian, their ill-fitting wrinkled Western suits looking like costumes they were uneasily wearing, this guy was strictly Anglo-Saxon, and his dark brown suit looked neat and natural.
Both Chang and Jardine scooted their chairs back and stood, and I followed their lead.
“Inspector McIntosh,” Chang said, “may I introduce honorable guest from Chicago Police, Nate Heller.”
Never losing the kindly smile, he ambled over to me, held out his hand, as he said, “You’ve wandered off your beat.”
We shook; his grip was surprisingly soft, though his hand was like a catcher’s mitt.
“I do that from time to time,” I said. “Actually, Clarence Darrow is an old family friend. He’s come out of retirement for this case and doesn’t have an investigator on staff anymore, so I’m helping him out.”
“I’ll bet Mr. Darrow had to pull some strings to arrange that.”
“He knows how. I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. I mentioned to Detective Apana that I hoped to speak with you.”
“Chang said as much. Isn’t the trial getting under way? I’d figure you to be at Mr. Darrow’s side.”
“Jury selection began Monday. I’m still doing leg work till the trial proper begins.”
“Ah.” He gestured like a gracious host. “Why don’t you step into my office, Detective Heller.” He cast his benignly beaming face upon Chang and Jardine. “I’ll speak to our guest privately.”
The two detectives nodded and sat back down.
Moments later, door shut behind us, I was taking the seat across from McIntosh’s big desk; other than filing cabinets, the oversized cubicle was bare: no photos or diplomas on the wall, only a few personal items on the desk to tide its occupant over till these temporary quarters were behind him.
McIntosh settled his rangy frame into the wooden swivel chair behind the desk and sat nervously rubbing his forefinger against one graying temple as we spoke.
“I wanted to speak to you one on one,” McIntosh said. “Chang Apana is a living legend around here, and Jardine is one of our best, most dogged investigators. But they’re Chinese and Portuguese, respectively, and I wanted to be able to level with you.”
“What does their race have to do with anything?”
The patient smile widened condescendingly; the lids of the world-weary, worried eyes went to half-mast. “Everything in Honolulu has to do with race, Detective Heller.”
“Well, then…how, specifically, in this instance? We have more than one race in Chicago, by the way. I’ve seen colored people before.”
“I didn’t mean to patronize. But even the sharpest detective from the biggest city force is going to find himself, well, frankly, in over his head in these waters.”
“Maybe you can toss me a life buoy.”
He chuckled mildly, even as he continued rubbing his temple nervously. “Let’s start with the Honolulu Police Department. We’re under terrible political pressure right now, and are in the midst of a reorganization. Our authority is being chipped away at, with this Territorial Force under Major Ross. And do you know why?”
“I have a hunch, but I don’t really want to seem impertinent.”
“Speak frankly.”
“It would seem you screwed up the Massie case.”
He swallowed; rubbed his forehead. “Race and politics, Detective Heller. Some years ago, white and Hawaiian political factions here threw in together, to keep the Japs and Chinese from dominating local government. Part of the deal was, the whites tossed lesser governmental jobs to Hawaiians. There are two hundred and eighty men on the force, Detective Heller—and two hundred and forty of them are Hawaiian, or of mixed Hawaiian blood.”
“What’s the difference, as long as they’re good men.”
McIntosh nodded, bringing his hands before him, folding them prayerfully. “Most of them are good men—they’re just not good cops. For most patrolmen and even detectives, no other qualification is needed but Hawaiian blood. Oh, and an eighth grade education.”
“Isn’t there any kind of testing, training…”
“Certainly. Cops here are trained to be able to give tourists directions. They have to be able to spell the names of the outer islands, and recommend points of interest.”