1 Murder on Moloka'i Read Online Free PDF

minor complaint had been filed against him by a patient. Goto’s field was infectious diseases. He had earned his medical degree in the Virgin Islands and spent one undergraduate year at the University of Hawai‘i, where, before her untimely death, Sara had taught in the law school.
    On my way to Dr. Goto’s office, my Impala growled along Kapi‘olani, turning a few heads. I bought the teal blue ‘69 Chevy with only fifty-two-thousand original miles. Its big V-8 engine was what hooked me, but equally important, the backseat was removable, so my longboard could slide right in.
    The doctor’s office was in a mirrored tower at 1555 Kapi‘olani near Ala Moana Shopping Center. Its lobby glinted with enough marble to sink the proverbial battleship. I rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor. A few minutes before eleven, I found a door with a polished brass plate: Benjamin Goto, M.D.
    The posh waiting room contained the usual ferns, seascapes, and recent issues of People, Good Housekeeping, Sports Illustrated, Honolulu, and Hawaii Business News. A receptionist with a professional smile asked me to take a seat. Twenty minutes later–not bad for the medical profession–she sent me in.
    Dr. Goto didn’t appear at all like the rugged outdoor type, as I had expected, but was a paunchy and affable man, probably in his forties. His ample jowls and rounded belly reminded me of a contented Buddha. He greeted me with smiling dark eyes.
    “Please be seated, Mr. Cooke.” The doctor made a sweeping gesture with great formality.
    “Call me Kai.” I wanted to put us on more friendly terms.
    “Ben Goto.” He offered me his hand and we shook.
    The doctor moved behind his spacious teak desk and directed me toward a matching chair. His medical degrees and certificates hung on the wall, along with a photo of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas–a slimmer Dr. Goto standing proudly before the glittering casino with a black-suited man in dark glasses.
    “That’s a handsome picture of you.” I pointed to the Vegas photo.
    Dr. Goto grinned. “Ah, yes, my salad days,” he quipped. “Shakespeare, don’t you know?”
    I wondered why the younger Goto would be in Nevada with a character dressed like a mafioso.
    “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Goto. My client appreciates your willingness to talk about Sara Ridgely-Parke’s death.”
    “Such a pity.” The doctor rocked back, his belly protruding from his white coat. He spoke in precise, proper English. “She seemed a remarkably intelligent woman.”
    “Apparently she was.”
    “I regret that I could not render medical treatment, but she was simply inaccessible.”
    “The mule guide confirms that. Neither he nor the police fault you.”
    “Still, it was most vexing.” He frowned. “I could do nothing, don’t you see. Absolutely nothing.”
    “May I ask where you were when Sara fell?”
    “Certainly …” Dr. Goto paused to gather his thoughts. “I rode at the front of the party, immediately behind the guide. Ms. Ridgely-Parke rode near the back.”
    “Did you see her fall?”
    “I am afraid not. Though her scream was chilling enough.”
    “You saw nothing?”
    “The accident happened quite quickly, Mr. Cooke. By the time I turned around, it was over.”
    “Was there any warning, any indication of something wrong before she fell?”
    “Not that I recall. It was a tricky section of trail–steep and rocky–but other sections had also been rough.”
    “Did you know the victim before that day on Moloka‘i?”
    “I had heard of her, of course. During the Save Coconut Beach initiative one could hardly pick up a newspaper or turn on the television without seeing her youthful face.”
    “Did you have any particular opinion about her? Or about her political activities?”
    “I admired her. That’s why it is such a pity to lose her. Legions of people mouth pieties about protecting the environment, but how many willingly endanger themselves to further the