Chapter 19
The morning air streams through the open windows, carrying the scent of plumeria and possibility as we pull away from the resort.
His radio crackles with Hawaiian music that seems to be the only station that comes in clearly, and the interior smells like ocean air, coffee, and something indefinably masculine that makes my brain forget how to process basic information.
“So,” he says, navigating around a tourist who’s stopped in the middle of the road to photograph a chicken, “start talking.”
“About what specifically? My life story, my questionable career choices, or the murder investigation I’ve been conducting without a license?”
He frowns. “Let’s start with the murder investigation and work our way up to the interesting life choices.”
We approach the first of the North Shore’s famous one-lane bridges, and Hale slows to let an oncoming car pass with the kind of island courtesy that would never exist on the mainland.
The driver gives him a shaka wave—thumb and pinkie extended, three middle fingers folded down, the universal Hawaiian gesture that means everything from “aloha” to “thanks” to “hang loose”—which he returns with the casual precision of an islander who’s been doing this since he could see over a steering wheel.
“Hanalei Bridge,” he says, as we cross the narrow span over a river that looks like liquid jade. “Most photographed bridge in Hawaii. Also, the most likely place to get stuck behind tourists who think stop signs are suggestions and photography is a competitive sport.”
“Do you always provide narration, or is this a special tour guide service?”
“Depends on whether you’re planning to share information or just enjoy the scenery while pretending you haven’t been conducting unauthorized interrogations.”
The road winds through taro fields that stretch toward mountains so green they look like someone spilled emerald paint across the landscape and decided to just leave it that way.
Ancient stone walls divide the fields with the precision of people who knew what they were doing centuries ago, and egrets pick their way through the shallow water with the patience of creatures who’ve never heard of deadlines or stress or murder investigations.
“Fine,” I say, settling back in the seat that’s probably more comfortable than anything in my storage closet room.
“Dane Huntington is running tourist scams, skimming money from resort activities, and was being blackmailed by Nolan about it. He’s terrified of prison because, and I quote, ‘Pretty boys like me don’t last a week. ’”
Hale nods, taking another bridge without slowing down. A group of tourists waves from the side of the road where they’re photographing what appears to be a very photogenic cow.
“What else?”
“Savannah Cross knows everyone’s business—and I mean everyone’s, like she’s been keeping files since the Nixon administration.
She’s been on the island forever, and she turns into a protective mama bear when anyone threatens her garden.
She also implied that May Leilani is running from something big in California, and the way she said it made it sound like something big might involve actual crimes rather than just bad life choices. ”
“And the crimes would be?”
“Hit and run incident, stolen identity, built her entire wellness empire on someone else’s Social Security Number. Dane mentioned that Nolan may have had evidence.”
Hale absorbs this information with the calm of a detective who’s heard worse and also expected exactly this.
Twenty minutes later, we reach the end of the road at Ke’e Beach, where the pavement gives way to the hiking trail that leads along the Nā Pali Coast. The beach stretches before us like a postcard that’s trying too hard to be perfect with its white sand and turquoise water framed by cliffs that rise like green spires.
“Come on,” Hale says, getting out of the truck. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He leads us to Waikapalae Cave, a magnificent, large, wet cave that burrows into the cliff face like nature’s own secret meeting room.
The temperature drops about ten degrees as we step inside, and the sound of dripping water echoes off the stone walls with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
It’s dark the deeper you get, but by the looks of it you can’t go too far, or perhaps shouldn’t.
“This is where locals come when they want to think,” he says, his voice carrying differently in the enclosed space, softer somehow and more intimate. “No tourists, no distractions, just you and the mountain.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say and mean it. The cave feels ancient, peaceful, removed from everything complicated about the outside world—murder investigations, failing resorts, ex-husbands, the fact that I’m standing in a cave with a man who makes my knees forget their primary function.
“So, what do you think happened?” he asks, leaning against the cave wall completely comfortable in his own skin, and I bet he’s also probably comfortable interrogating people in romantic cave settings.
“I think Nolan Nakamura made the mistake of threatening too many people at once, and one of them decided to solve the problem permanently.”
“Which one?”
“That’s your job to figure out, Detective. I’m just the amateur with good instincts and a talent for getting people to confess things they probably shouldn’t.”
He pushes off from the wall, stepping closer in a way that makes the cave feel smaller and warmer. “You’re more than that.”
“Really? What am I?” My voice comes out breathier than intended, which the cave acoustics amplify.
“Trouble,” he says with the hint of a wicked smile.
I should probably be insulted, but instead, I smile.
An hour and a half later of sightseeing, we’re driving south through Kapaa, an old plantation town that’s managed to hold onto its local character despite the tourist invasion like a stubborn grandmother refusing to update her decor.
The midday heat makes the air shimmer above the asphalt like the road is having heat-induced hallucinations, and I’m grateful for the trade winds that keep the truck from becoming a mobile sauna.
Hale points out adorable hole-in-the-wall restaurants where locals like to eat, shops that sell things other than t-shirts and keychains, and the places that make this island home rather than just a destination for people who want to take selfies and leave.
“I grew up here,” he says, nodding toward a street that disappears into a residential neighborhood. “Learned to surf at Kealia Beach, got in trouble at the elementary school, broke my first heart at the high school dance.”
“Broke your first heart or had yours broken?”
“Both. Same girl, different years.”
Another forty-five minutes of winding roads brings us to Wailua Falls, which appears around a bend like a gift from the gods of dramatic scenery. Eighty feet of water cascades into a pool so blue it doesn’t look real, surrounded by jungle so lush it makes the Garden of Eden look understated.
“Oh my word,” I breathe, getting out of the truck to get a better look. The afternoon sun has reached that perfect angle where everything looks like it’s been professionally lit for a tourism commercial.
“Most people hike for hours to see waterfalls like this,” Hale says, joining me at the viewing area. “This one comes with parking and a snack bar.”
“Does that make it less beautiful?”
“Makes it more accessible. Beauty shouldn’t require a fitness test or special equipment. Everyone deserves to see things like this.”
The way he says it makes me look at him differently. There’s something thoughtful under all that law enforcement authority, something that cares about more than just catching bad guys.
The drive to Waimea Canyon takes us through the heart of the island, past sugar mill ruins and red dirt roads that lead to places the guidebooks don’t mention. Two hours later, when we reach the canyon lookout, I understand why they call it the Grand Canyon of the Pacific.
Red and green cliffs stretch for miles, carved by time and weather into something that looks like the earth decided to show off.
Waterfalls thread silver ribbons down the canyon walls, and the whole scene is so spectacular it makes you understand why people move to islands and never leave.
And I think I’m going to be one of them.
“This is where I come when the job gets heavy,” Hale says, leaning against the railing. The late afternoon light turns everything golden, and the warm breeze transports the scent of eucalyptus and wild ginger.
“Heavy how?”
“Island politics. Development pressure. Watching paradise get sold to the highest bidder, one acre at a time. Watching people treat this place like it’s just another commodity instead of someone’s home, someone’s sacred space.”
“Is that what Nolan was doing?”
“Among other things. Nolan represented everything that’s wrong with how investors see this place. Resource to be exploited rather than a home to be protected.”
After soaking in the natural beauty, we hop back into his truck for whatever lies ahead.
The drive through the Tunnel of Trees feels like entering another world.
Over five hundred eucalyptus trees form a canopy over the road, their branches creating living high rises that filters the late afternoon light into something magical.
The confined space makes everything feel more intimate, more personal.
“So,” I say, because the intimacy of the tunnel makes me brave or possibly stupid, “what’s the story with your brothers and the construction company?”
His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “They got involved with the wrong project, trusted the wrong people. Ended up taking the blame when things went sideways in ways that weren’t entirely their fault but also weren’t entirely not their fault.”
“What kind of things?”
“The kind that makes people not want to hire you anymore. The kind that makes your reputation toxic even when you’re actually good at what you do. The kind that makes you grateful when someone offers you a chance to prove you can still do good work.”
“Even if that someone is offering up a failing resort held together by duct tape and optimism and possibly the collective denial of three women who don’t know when to quit?”
“Especially then.”
We reach Poipu Beach just as the sun starts its descent toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and orange.
The South Shore has a different energy from the North.
It’s more developed, more polished, but still undeniably beautiful.
After eight hours of island touring, I’m sunburned, windblown, and completely enchanted by both the island and the man who’s been showing it to me.
“Perfect timing,” Hale says, parking where we can watch the sun sink into the Pacific like a giant orange dropping into blue silk.
“For the sunset?”
“For me to ask if you’d like to have dinner. There’s a place here that does the best fresh fish on the island, and I think we’ve earned it after today—you for sharing information, me for not arresting you for interfering with my investigation.”
The sun touches the horizon, sending a path of gold across the water that leads directly to where we’re sitting. The air is warm and soft, filled with the scent of salt and tropical flowers and the type of possibility that makes people do things they probably shouldn’t but definitely want to.
“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” I say.
And watching the way his eyes light up when I say it, I realize this investigation just became a lot more complicated in all the best possible way.