1 Murder on Moloka'i by Chip Hughes

her spoils with key politicians. An investment group would then be formed called a hui, a partnership with all the influential players, even sometimes underworld types who funneled in ill-gotten dollars. Whenever an approval was required, the project would slide through slick as grease.
    The door opened to a rod-straight man in his thirties with a well-rehearsed smile and darting eyes of drab olive. His pale blonde hair was cropped fashionably close, nearly shaved at the temples like a marine cut. McWhorter was rough-hewn handsome and wore the silk aloha shirt of a downtown banker.
    He gestured woodenly toward a visitor’s chair. Despite a No Smoking sign posted in the hall outside his door, on McWhorter’s desk sat a pack of Marlboro Lights and an ashtray full of butts. I handed him my card as he positioned himself behind his wide desk. His stiffness and tight smile didn’t make me feel very welcome.
    He glanced at my card. “Quite a gimmick. That ‘Surfing Detective’ bit. You must get some interesting cases.”
    “True.” I wondered if he was mocking me.
    “Do you actually surf?” he asked in a voice thinner than his rugged “Marlboro Man” image suggested.
    “When time allows.”
    “A dangerous sport.” McWhorter smirked. “So you came to talk about Sara?” He wasted few words.
    “Yes, I’m investigating the professor’s death on Moloka‘i.”
    “Adrienne mentioned it.” McWhorter reached for his pack of Marlboros. “Want one?” He flashed the flip-top box.
    “No, thanks.”
    “Sara’s passing was a shock to everyone here.” He pulled out a cigarette, then flicked his lighter. A tongue of yellow flame licked out. “I’m not surprised Adrienne hired you to investigate the accident, given her emotional state.” He took a long drag, then exhaled a grey cloud. “But I seriously doubt her theory that Sara’s fall was somehow arranged.”
    “I’m just doing my job.” I said.
    He took another drag from his smoke. “Sara was truly an exceptional woman and a top-notch attorney. We’d all like to bring her back.”
    “Your reflections on her career might benefit the investigation. First, do you know this missing law student, Baron Taniguchi?”
    “Taniguchi?” McWhorter blew another grey plume. “Why?”
    “Curiosity. His disappearance has been so much in the news.”
    “Baron took one class from me.” McWhorter flicked his cigarette ash. “He did well. That’s all I remember about him.”
    “Real estate law is your specialty?” I knew the answer, but wanted to keep him talking.
    McWhorter nodded as he puffed on his cigarette, the air in his office becoming thick. “I also advise the Chancellor Trust on real estate matters.”
    “Representing the trust must have put you at odds with Sara.”
    “I admired Sara even though, politically speaking, we were on opposite sides of the fence. She opposed developing the islands, and took her opposition to extremes.”
    “What extremes?”
    “Once on ABC’s ‘Nightline’ she called Waikīkī a ‘high-rise horror.’ The tourism board did backflips!” McWhorter puffed. “‘No building taller than a coconut palm.’ That was Sara’s slogan. She’d have us all living on the beach in little grass shacks.”
    “Interesting idea.”
    “Pure nostalgia. No sane person in Hawai‘i today believes we can go back to that …”
    The more McWhorter talked, the more I wondered how Sara could have found him at all attractive. Despite his rugged good looks and practiced smile, rigidity seemed to fix his character, from his stiff posture to his abrupt dismissal of those who held opinions different than his own.
    “Development means jobs,” McWhorter continued. “Sara forgot working people when she married Gregory Parke and moved to Kāhala.”
    What a smoke screen. McWhorter struck me as someone who couldn’t care less about the average Joe or Jane.
    “Does it seem strange to you that Sara married Parke?”
    “Sara lost her senses for a