I tried to let my mind relax, see what kind of connection I was missing, but all I kept coming back to was the name Ed Baines had given us. I raised Mike on his cell, out in the field ruling out arson at a house fire in Mo’ili’ili. “I want to go over and talk to our buddy Jeff White. You want to come with?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I gave him the address, and he agreed to meet me there.
A half hour later, I pulled up at the shopping center on Wai’alae Avenue and parked in front of Puerto Peinado, the hair salon owned by Tatiana’s friend Tico, where Mike was leaning against the wall in a square of shade. The air was still, not a hint of a breeze to carry the exhaust fumes and traffic noise up to the mountains or out over the ocean. It was incredibly hot and I understood why Mike was waiting in the shade. “You realize this salon is run by a known homosexual,” I said.
“You know him?”
“Not in the biblical sense.” I explained about his friendship with Tatiana.
“Like your friendship with Terri,” he said.
“Gotta have a gal pal,” I said. “Every gay man needs one.”
We walked up to the door of the church and peered inside. It looked pretty much as I remembered from Sunday, though there was only one person inside, a man in a short-sleeved shirt sitting at a table writing something.
When we opened the door, he looked up. It was the minister himself, Jeff White, though I still wasn’t sure if he was also the sweaty guy I’d seen at the party.
“Welcome,” White said. “Are you interested in the church?”
We introduced ourselves and showed our credentials, and I could see the man become wary. Mike hung back and let me take the lead. “Mr. White, we’re here because your name has come up in an investigation,” I said, “and we’d like to give you the opportunity to set the record straight. Tell us your side of the story.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Are you familiar with a farm up in the highlands called Pupukea Plantation?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you run worship services up there occasionally?”
White looked confused. “Oh, that place,” he said. “I get mixed up with these Hawaiian names. Everything sounds so similar. Yes, we’ve had services up there several times.”
“In your visits out there, have you ever spoken with an individual named Ed Baines?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You’re sure, are you?”
White nodded.
“Because, see, the thing is, he says he knows you. He says you hired him to put some horse manure into paper bags and then throw it all over the sidewalk in front of an office building downtown.”
I watched as White’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, that. A little harmless mischief. I wouldn’t exactly say I hired him. He’s a strong supporter of our church and our causes, you know, and we were talking about things that people do now and then. I didn’t think he was actually going to do it.”
I blew a little air out through my lips in a derogatory way. “Not even when you offered him a thousand dollars? How about when you paid him the money, Mr. White? Did you think he actually did it then? Or do you just spread that kind of money around without thinking?”
“You’re a homosexual, aren’t you, detective? I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Did the money you gave him come from the Sandwich Islands Trust?” I asked. “Because if it did you’re not getting any more money from them.”
Beads of sweat appeared on White’s forehead. “I’m not saying anything further. I want a lawyer present.”
“That’s your call.” I pulled the card out of my wallet and read him his rights. “Do you understand these rights that I have explained to you?”
“I understand them.”
“Good.” I stood up. “Then we won’t take any more of your time right now, but I suggest you engage the services of an attorney, if you so desire. We’ll be back, with more questions.”
“Why the hell are you investigating this nonsense?” he asked. “The city pays you top dollar, I’m sure, what with all your press exposure. All that just to chase around a little fag-bashing incident?”
“We hardly consider homicide a little fag-bashing incident.” I noticed his face went several shades paler. “Especially since to my knowledge the victim was an avowed heterosexual.”
“Victim? What victim?”
“Vice Mayor Wilson Shira.” I paused to let the name sink in. “Come on, Mr. White, you gotta keep up with the news. A couple hours after Ed Baines threw that horseshit, the building blew up and Wilson Shira turned into a crispy critter.”
“You don’t think…”
“The city doesn’t pay me to think. They pay me to investigate. And when I find you paid one guy to throw some horseshit at the place, it’s not a big leap to consider you might have paid somebody else to plant a bomb there.” I looked down at him, still sitting at his desk. “Or planted it yourself.”
Mike and I left White to stew over those questions. We walked down the shopping center sidewalk to the news stand and picked up a copy of the Advertiser, then went into the Chinese restaurant at the far end to grab some lunch and check for articles on the case. An editorial columnist had written about public officials who placed themselves in personal danger, and there was an article on Charlie Stahl’s life and legacy. He had contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years to liberal causes, and there were quotes from various civic leaders praising him. I wondered if they knew he was, as Gunter had called him, a notorious leather queen. Would that have made a difference in how they treated him? Probably not, as long as he was rich.
“What do you know about this minister?” Mike asked.
I told him what Harry had discovered, that the woman he was representing as his wife was actually his sister. “And they think we’re kinky,” he said.
“I talked to her when I was canvassing in Makiki.” And then it hit me, so much that my mouth dropped open and Mike must have thought I was having a fit or something.
“Kimo? You okay?”
“They live in Makiki,” I said.
“Yes. Lots of people do.”
“Down the street from the homeless man who was killed the day I first saw you at headquarters.”
“Yes, you said you met them when you were canvassing.”
“And did I tell you about the ballistics match?”
He shook his head. “The same gun was used on the homeless man, the chicken, and Charlie Stahl.”
“Whoa.”
“Exactly. This is what I can use to tie together the two cases.”
“But how can you tie them to the Whites without a smoking gun, to coin a phrase?”
I frowned. I knew I’d need something concrete to get a judge to sign a warrant. I could tie the two murders together, and I could tie Charlie Stahl’s death to the bombing at the Marriage Project offices, and I could identify the Whites and their church as opponents of gay marriage.
But the only concrete evidence was Ed Baines’s fingerprint on the paper bag, and his statement that Jeff White had hired him to throw the shit bombs. And that didn’t tie to anything else, except in a circumstantial way.
“This case is making me crazy,” I said. “I know that the pieces fit together but I just need one more to make the puzzle show enough to get the warrant.”
We stood up to go, and I saw an elderly man walking by with a cane, a stout younger man, probably a son, helping him. “Shit. I ought to call my house. See how my dad is.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed as Mike and I walked to my truck.
My mother answered. She said everything was fine, and wanted to make sure that I would be at Uncle Chin’s wake the next day.
“I will be.”
“Did you find anything more about that boy?” she asked. “Aunt Mei-Mei keeps asking about him. The boy who was staying there.”
“No. A friend and I went out last night, but we didn’t see him. I’ll keep looking.”
“You think he had anything to do with your uncle’s death?” Mike asked when I’d hung up. We stopped next to my truck, and I could see his, the one with the flames painted down the side, a few feet away.
I told him about my call from Akoni. “It should make everybody feel better, except I know Aunt Mei-Mei is just gonna worry more about Jimmy, knowing he’s innocent and yet he still felt like he had to run away.”