Chapter 3
SOPHIE
Iolani Palace rose from its manicured grounds in downtown Honolulu like a Victorian dream trapped in tropical amber. Sophie had scanned a historical search on her tech pad on the drive, quickly absorbing as much background information as she could.
Gentle trade winds carried scent from the plumeria trees King Kalākaua himself had planted, their white and yellow blossoms cascading over a wrought iron fence—the same type of blossom they’d found at this morning’s crime scene.
Sophie noted the Iolani Barracks to her left, a smaller but similarly designed building where the Royal Guard had once been housed, which now served as the visitor center.
The grounds were still empty, the first tour groups not scheduled until eleven a.m. “We have to finish before they arrive,” Marcus said. “Since this is just a follow-up visit.”
They climbed the broad steps where Queen Lili?uokalani had been arrested in 1895, passing between four Corinthian columns that supported the wide lanai. Sophie touched one of the etched glass doors imported from San Francisco, thinking of all the history the fragile panels had witnessed.
Inside, the Grand Hall stretched before them, its gleaming koa wood staircase ascending gracefully to a second floor. The walls displayed portraits of Hawaiian royalty in European dress; the kingdom’s response to the colonizers’ language of power had been to match it.
Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings, their light dancing across walls that had witnessed both glittering state dinners and the illegal overthrow of a sovereign nation.
“The throne room is this way,” Marcus said, leading them through a reception hall where a plaque denoted the name Blue Room, describing King Kalākaua receiving dignitaries here from around the world.
Sophie noticed an alarm system discreetly integrated into the crown molding—one of many modern updates necessary to protect what remained of Hawaii's royal treasures—not that it had worked.
Truth was, nothing in the world was safe from a determined and tech-equipped thief.
The throne room itself took Sophie’s breath away with its luxurious, traditional appearance.
Twin elaborate golden chairs sat on a raised dais beneath a scarlet canopy, empty now but still radiating dignity and mana.
One had been King Kalākaua’s, the other his queen Kapi?olani’s.
Behind them hung the royal coat of arms with its motto: “Ua Mau ke Ea o ka ?āina i ka Pono”—The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness.
“There.” Marcus pointed to an empty pedestal beside the throne platform. “That’s where the stolen kāhili was displayed.”
Sophie studied the empty pedestal where the feather standard had once stood.
Kāhili were symbols of royal authority, made of thousands of feathers from native birds, some of which were now extinct.
This particular one had belonged to Kamehameha I himself, its red ?i?iwi and yellow ?ō?ō feathers worth far more than gold.
“Same MO as the other burglary.” Marcus gestured to the security camera mounted in the corner. “That was disabled. The burglars knew exactly where every camera was, every motion sensor.”
Sophie crouched beside the pedestal, examining the base.
The kāhili had been mounted using the same system installed in the 1960s during the palace’s restoration.
“No tool marks. They knew which screws to remove, in what order. This was likely an inside job, or at least directed by someone with inside knowledge.”
Raveaux emerged from examining the entrance points, having checked the staff entrance near the basement kitchen where King Kalākaua had once hosted poker games. “The windows show no signs of forced entry. They came through the main doors, which means—”
“They had access and knew the alarm codes,” Marcus finished.
Sophie’s phone buzzed. Another message from Connor appeared on the screen: My operative will arrive tomorrow. He’s my best.
Sophie deleted the message without responding. She had more pressing concerns than Connor’s unsolicited interference.
“Dr. Yoshimura mentioned an inter-museum loan program when we were talking,” Pierre said.
“Artifacts move between institutions for special exhibitions. The palace loans items to Bishop Museum, the Hawaiian Mission Houses, even mainland institutions. Sometimes private collectors participate. Perhaps we should look at—”
A loud creak, as if from a footfall, came from the floor above and interrupted him. The sound had come from the second floor—the private quarters where the royal family had actually lived.
“No one is supposed to be in here.” Marcus pulled his weapon and Sophie matched his movement.
They whirled to face the doorway. “Building’s supposed to be empty.
Let’s check it out,” Marcus said. They moved as a pair toward the grand staircase, footsteps muffled by the crimson carpet runner as they ascended, weapons ready. Pierre, unarmed, brought up the rear.
Sophie’s heart rate stayed steady despite her alertness as she reached out to touch the koa wood banister. It was smooth under her hand, polished by thousands of visitors and, before that, by the hands of Hawaii’s last monarchs.
The creaking sound came again—definitely from the King’s Suite above, the corner bedroom. Marcus took point, Sophie covering his six, Pierre bringing up the rear.
The door to the suite stood ajar. Through the gap, Sophie could see the room’s Victorian furnishings: an ornate carved bed where Kalākaua had slept, the desk where he’d written correspondence to other monarchs, asserting Hawaii’s place among nations, and composed the lyrics to “Hawai?i Pono?ī,” now the state anthem.
Marcus counted down on his fingers—three, two, one—and swept inside with Sophie on the other side of his advance. “HPD! Nobody move!”
But the room was empty except for an open window, its lace curtains billowing in the light trade winds. A gilded candlestick lay on its side on the polished floor beside Kalākaua’s writing desk. Next to it was a plumeria blossom, so fresh that dewdrops still clung to its petals.
“Dammit.” Marcus holstered his weapon as he bent to examine the blossom. “They were just here.”
Sophie moved to the window, careful not to touch anything.
Below stretched the palace’s manicured grounds—the same view the king would have seen every morning.
The Coronation Pavilion, built for Kalākaua and Kapi?olani’s formal coronation in 1883, stood empty on the lawn and cast geometric shadows across the grass.
No sign of anyone on the grounds.
Had the intruder chosen this room specifically?
Why not the Queen’s Suite across the hall where Lili?uokalani had been imprisoned under house arrest after the overthrow, not the library where she’d composed “Aloha ?Oe,” but Kalākaua’s personal space?
Could the choice of location be a piece of the puzzle?
Sophie frowned. “What is this thief playing at?”
“I don’t know,” Raveaux said, reaching her side.
Marcus got on his radio, calling for backup to sweep the area—all eleven acres of the estate.
“They must have known we’d be coming,” Sophie said, unease causing her spine to prickle. “Someone could be watching us.”
“But why take this kind of risk and . . . not steal anything?” Raveaux gestured around the King’s Suite with elegant hands, his movements encompassing the Victorian furnishings, the heavy koa wood furniture, a crystal chandelier that had witnessed the last days of Hawaiian independence.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like spirits of the past. “They didn’t even take those. ” He gestured to the mantelpiece.
Sophie studied the silver candlesticks resting on the raised shelf—nineteenth-century pieces that could fetch considerable sums on the black market.
They were undisturbed, their surfaces still bearing the careful polish of the palace preservation staff.
Above them hung a portrait of King David Kalākaua, the “Merrie Monarch,” his eyes seeming to follow her movements with an expression both regal and melancholic.
“The whole thing is bizarre,” Marcus said, watching as Sophie photographed the plumeria.
The flower lay against the deep burgundy of the carpet like a fallen star.
The morning light revealed subtle variations in its coloring—not pure white as she’d first thought, but touched with the faintest lemon yellow, like sun on sand.
Sophie pulled on latex gloves with practiced efficiency, the familiar snap of rubber against skin grounding her in the present even as the room’s history pressed in from all sides.
She carefully lifted the flower noting how it had been placed with deliberate precision at the exact center of the room, equidistant from all four walls.
Someone had cared about the presentation.
“Evidence bag?” she asked, and Marcus handed her one from his kit. The plastic crinkled as she sealed the plumeria inside, another piece of the puzzle.
Standing in the room where Hawaii’s last king had once paced the floors, dreaming of preserving his nation’s independence against the rising tide of American imperialism, Sophie felt the weight of years pressing down.
King Kalākaua had died in San Francisco’s Palace Hotel in 1891, far from these shores he’d fought to protect.
His sister, Queen Lili?uokalani, had been imprisoned in an upstairs bedroom of this very palace after the overthrow, composing mournful songs that would outlive her kingdom.
And now someone was using these rooms as a stage for their own drama, leaving blossoms like breadcrumbs in a dangerous fairy tale.
A feather brush of anxiety traced down Sophie’s spine—not for herself, but for what the flowers might mean.
Three crime scenes, three flowers, each deliberately chosen. In her experience, such specificity meant personal connection. Personal threat.