The Bone Field by Debra Bokur (the best ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

was already dead. It looks like storing the wooden pineapple in a bone saw box may have been prescient of me—or maybe just ironic, depending upon your point of view.”

“Well, at least it’s something.” Kali watched as Walter checked the time.

“We should have a search warrant for the Waters’s place by the end of the day tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve got to deal with the details on the cock-fighting bust. I assume you can do without me for a little while.”

She smiled. “Sure.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Hara, by the way? He can help me sort through these images again.”

“I’m here, Detective Mhoe,” said Hara, stepping through the doorway. He was holding a bag. The aroma of grilled onions emanated from it. “The captain sent me out for a snack.”

Kali looked questioningly at Walter. “Pretty close to dinnertime for a snack, isn’t it? I’ll bet Nina won’t be happy if you don’t have any appetite for whatever she’s cooked up.”

Walter grumbled. “She’s off at a recital with the girls. Lara and Beth are dancing, and Suki is singing. Long story short, I have to fend for myself tonight.” He walked past Hara, taking the bag from his hand. He opened the top and looked in. The onion aroma was joined by the scent of pulled pork and barbecue sauce. It filled the air, and Walter grinned in happiness. “Thank you, Officer. Excellent work.” He raised the bag in a salute to Hara, then left.

Alone in the room, Kali and Hara placed the thick album beneath the light on the long table. Kali began to slowly turn the pages. As she’d already noted, there were numerous images of the day-to-day production in the fields and farm buildings, and many photos of individuals who must have meant something to Manuel. Most of the photos with people showed small groups, with an occasional portrait, or a lone person doing something related to the production process.

She thought about Manuel Raso’s generation, and how his job had likely been so much more than just the place where he spent hours every day. It had been a career for not only him, but for so many of the other people working for the pineapple company—their lives entwined with bringing the sweet fruit to maturation, their moods affected by the amount of daily wind or worries over lack of rainfall, their time measured out in volume and numbers and slow ripenings.

“There,” said Hara suddenly, pointing excitedly. “It’s the girl. Helen Stafford.”

Kali looked closely at the image, then removed it from the cellophane sleeve and examined it more closely under the light. Hara was right. Helen Stafford was standing next to a table where several pineapples were on display, along with a stack of wooden transport crates visible in the background. She was smiling, making the “hang loose” shaka sign with the fingers of one hand, her thumb and pinky extended, her three center fingers curled against her palm.

Kali set the photo aside, and continued to turn the pages in the album. She was just about to move on to another page when an image caught her attention. It showed several women and a young girl, all wearing the long blue skirts that she had seen Abigail Waters and the women on the ferryboat wearing. She removed those images as well, and placed them in the small pile she had made that included the photo that depicted the harvest-gold refrigerator.

She stood up. “Feel like taking a ride?”

Hara nodded willingly. “Bring the album?”

“Yes, and this stack of images I pulled from them. Keep those separate.”

* * *

They took the Jeep, making a quick stop at George’s Island Market to pick up a coconut cake to bring to Manuel as a gift. Kali and Hara listened as George shared news from a tabloid headline that warned residents of Hawai‘i that the oddly shaped clouds some of them had reported were cloaking devices used by a superior alien race to hide their spaceships. Kali tried to hide her concern that Hara seemed genuinely alarmed, and turned the conversation to the investigation.

“What do you know about a group of people calling themselves Eden’s River, who used to have some kind of combination commune, farm, and church over on Lna‘i, George? The leader was a guy called Abraham Waters. It was billed as a Christian wellness retreat, but a lot of the people who came to participate wound up living there together.”

George tilted his head in thought. “Commune and church? Sounds kind of like a cult.”

“That’s our thought as well, though we can’t find a lot of information about what exactly was going on, other than allegations of young girls being involved.”

George’s face flooded with alarm. “How young is young?”

“Not sure yet,” said Kali. “Late teens, early twenties is what we’ve heard so far. Whatever was going on there, enough of a problem was developing that the program—or whatever it was—got shut down on Lna‘i. We have reason to believe that he’s trying to run the same show here on Maui.”

“I’ll keep my ears open,” said George.

Kali nodded in gratitude, and handed the coconut cake to Hara, who carried it to the Jeep. They made their way through the tourist traffic moving slowly along the southern end of the Hana Highway. When they finally reached the pineapple mailbox at the foot of Manuel’s driveway, it was growing late.

Hara followed her up the walkway. By the time they’d crossed the short distance to the door, Manuel had come out and stood waiting. He smiled when he saw Kali.

“Aloha, Detective,” he said.

“Aloha, Mr. Raso,” she said. “This is my colleague, Officer David Hara. We’ve come with a few more questions about your photographs. I apologize for not calling first, but do you perhaps have some time to spare for us?”

Some small shadow of loneliness in the old man’s eyes lifted.

“Of course—please, come inside,” he said.

Kali nodded to Hara, and he extended the cake box.