“That’s your job to figure out, Detective. I’m just theamateur 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 apool 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 turnseverything 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’reactually 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?”
