A blue van was parked under a tree at the edge of a field of wet greasy clay, its tires flat, the rims sunk into the dirt, its side windows punched out, shards of glass glinting on the ground beside it, cardboard stuck into the window frames, the windshield painted black.

“The rich haole,” Olive said.

“This van was later—I’m giving you evidential matter. He stay here around the time he got busted.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“Never got booked, as such,” Frawley said.

“Cops respect Max big-time,” Fonoti said.

“Even though drugs maybe a significant factor,” Frawley said. “Or speeding, or vagrancy, or whatever. Always gets off. If you do due diligence, you’ll see he got no rap sheet. If you ask him, he’ll tell you. He didn’t even get a misdemeanor. Me, like I said, after the external audit, I ended up with a fraud case. Fonoti here, he got a felony. But Max, he’ll tell you straight, ‘I’m clean, brah.’”

“Hang a U-turn here,” Fonoti said; then, in an affronted voice, “They calling it a felony. It was a bad rap, relating to the so-called abuse of a family member. Would have been one misdemeanor, but they claim it happened in the presence of a minor.” He spat out the window again. “Making it upgrade to one felony. But that part about the keiki watching the beef was bullshit.”

Back on the highway, Frawley pointed to a compound of yellowish buildings with red roofs behind a chain-link fence and said, “Wai‘anae High School. The Seariders. Max gave them all computers, he set them up with software.”

“Buggah should be doing one victory lap,” Fonoti said.

“Maybe that’s why the police gave him a pass,” Olive said. “Because he was generous.”

Frawley said, “Sister, a lot of people generous. I did estate planning, way back, when my life was normal. Before bad choices.”

“White-collar crime, Fraw-boy,” Fonoti said, and giggled, his discolored gums showing greenish in the car. Something in his slushy toothless delivery made the expression even more mocking in its absurdity.

“Back then I knew plenny generous clients. They still had to face the music. But Max—he never. Go ask him.”

“Drugging?” Olive said.

Frawley shrugged. He looked peeved, he sighed, he blew out his cheeks. “All kine.”

“What happened to his money?” Olive asked.

“What always happens to money? It goes away. Doesn’t stay still.” He lit a cigarette as though to allow himself time to reflect. “Gave a ton of it away. I set up trust funds for him. Some of his money got cockaroached.”

“That little humbug house,” Fonoti said—it was a small weathered shack, surfboards propped against it, a Hawaiian flag flying upside down on a pole in front—“Max stay there for a lilly bit.”

“After the van?”