Walking away, I consider what I’ve learned so far. Chambermaid Lena tells me nothing that Fernandez didn’t except she mentions that Dr. Grimes was alone on that fateful weekend, implying his being alone was unusual. Then bartender Elton confirms the company the doctor kept on his lost weekends was none other than Krystal, the dog walker fired by his wife Beatrice Ho. So already I know something that Fernandez either didn’t know or didn’t tell me.
It’s curious that Dr. Grimes brought the blonde body builder with him most weekends to Moloka‘i but not the weekend his wife died. Krystal had an alibi—a rock concert on O‘ahu. Could she have slipped away undetected and been an accomplice to murder? In any case, so far Grimes has no iron clad alibi that he was on Moloka‘i that night.
Two down and one to go.
From the thatched cottages of the Moloka‘i Beach Hotel I drive two short miles back to Kaunakakai. I go barely a quarter mile beyond to the water’s edge and pull onto a long wharf—the longest in the state—jutting for what seems like a half mile into brilliant turquoise Kaunakakai Harbor. The wharf culminates in what is known as Pier Island—an oblong dock for inter-island barges, ferries, fishing boats and pleasure craft.
I park in one of the open stalls by the pier’s entrance and step into a balmy breeze. Across from the harbor is a gorgeous view to the southeast of the green, cloud-capped islands of Lāna‘i and Maui. And in the foreground, moored at the pier, a dozen boats gleam in the sun. I search for the one formerly owned by Dr. Grimes, recalling the model the doctor showed me of his sleek racer. When I suggested he could cross the Moloka‘i Channel in no time, he agreed, but only on those rare days when conditions were right. Otherwise, he would have been in for a rough ride.
The channel that separates the islands of Moloka‘i and O'ahu—whose traditional name is Ka‘iwi or “Channel of Bones”—has a reputation for bashing boats. Open ocean swells pushing through the narrow canyon between the two islands and churned up by foul weather have wrought destruction on unwary mariners since the beginning of recorded history. It was in this treacherous channel that one of Hawai‘i’s most famous and legendary watermen, Eddie Aikau, was lost.
But on the night Dr. Grimes’s wife died seas were calm and the moon nearly full. He could have roared across the channel, docked near his Portlock home, and then orchestrated his wife’s plunge from the cliffs of Makapu‘u.
Scanning the dock I spot it—long and sleek and shaped like an expensive cigar. The hull is emblazoned with orange flames—fitting for a water-borne rocket—and floodlights grace the bow for running at night. I walk to the stern to verify: Sea Ya Later.
The guy I need to talk to ought to be here any minute. Ikaika is his name. From a boathouse on the makai end of the pier a man ambles toward me. He looks older than I expected and walks a bit hunched over. Fernandez’s report indicated that Ikaika makes his living caring for boats of absentee owners like the doctor.
“Sorry," Ikaika says when he reaches me, "I stay on Hawaiian time.”
“No worries,” I say, checking out his silver Fu Manchu mustache and skin tanned as reddish-brown as koa. He’s got to be well past sixty. “Jus’ get here myself. Ikaika, you like tell me ‘bout Dr. Grimes and his boat?”
“Fo’ sure,” Ikaika replies. “Know da doctor fo’ long time, brah. He wen come here on da weekends. Otherwise, his boat jus’ sit here at da dock.”
“On da night his wife die on O'ahu, you remembah, a few years ago? Da detective ask you about ‘um.”
“Long time ago, brah.”
“Maybe I jus’ ask you da same questions? Maybe you remembah somet’ing new?”
“Dunno, brah. Long time.”
“Okay, on da night da doctor’s wife wen fall from da cliffs on Makapu‘u, wuz da doctor’s boat here?”
“When I leave dat night, da boat still here, brah. Wuz almos’ dark, yeah?”
“What time you come back da next morning?”
“Early, brah. Maybe seven.”
“Da doctor’s boat still here?”
“No, but he cruise in pretty soon aftah I get here. Da doctor like take his boat out early in da morning—dawn patrol, you know?—when da water smooth and glassy. He like go fas’. Dat morning no different, like I wen tell da detective.”
“Maybe da doctor take da boat out da night befo’. Maybe he gone all night?”
“Could have, brah. But didn’t.”
I take another tack. “Ikaika, how long you t’ink it take da doctor to drive da boat to O‘ahu?”
“Oh, long time, brah.” The old man explains that the shortest distance between the islands of Moloka‘i and O‘ahu is about twenty-six miles, but from Kaunakakai Harbor to the closest small boat harbor on O‘ahu is much farther. More like forty-five miles. “And da Ka‘iwi Channel get really rough, brah. Hit one big wave and peel yo’ eyebrows back, fo’ sure.”
“Dat night was calm, yeah?”
“Long time. Doan remembah.”
Ikaika seems to be having repeated memory lapses. I ask him a few more questions with similar results and then say, “T’anks, eh?” and shake his hand local style.
“No mention, brah,” he says and slowly ambles away.
Ikaika has told me nothing he didn’t already tell Fernandez and his crew, but from the old salt’s convenient forgetfulness and omissions it could be he’s not telling all.
On my late afternoon flight back to Honolulu I sort through what I’ve learned from my three interviews. Dr. Grimes had the means and the motive and the opportunity to cross the channel that night in moonlight and in calm seas to murder his wife. I cannot yet prove he did this. But I can say that he could have done it.
After the plane lands and I’m driving home I get a call on my cellphone from the doctor himself. He leaves a message that I listen to once I’m back at the Waikīkī Edgewater.
"I've been contacted by Paris Police, via HPD, about the hit-and-run death of Marie's boyfriend. I expect my own stepdaughter has implicated me and I'm not happy about it. I'd like your full report when you return from Paris. And don't be surprised if you hear from Paris Police too. GJG."