The whisper startled the policeman more than a shout would have done. He turned away from Sharkey, to Olive, with a plea tensed on his face.

“Max,” he said, sighing a little, snatching at his ear. “Not many people knew him by sight, but everyone on the force knew his name. Like a monk seal.”

“Good swimmer,” Olive said.

“No—no. A protected species.”

Olive saw the man on the ground at Waimea in the rain near the black brimming pothole, broken, twisted, pale in death, unprotected.

“Forbidden by law to harm or destroy,” DeSouza said. “You can do serious time, plus a big fine, for messing with a monk seal. Any cop bust Max Mulgrave, he gonna get serious lickings from the chief.” He turned to Sharkey and studied his gray grieving face. “Funny thing. As far as HPD was concerned, he was more better than you, Shark.”

“In what way?” Olive said, because Sharkey was stunned by the words.

“In a good way. Long time ago he did some kind of favor—some kokua.”

“That’s what we were told in Wai‘anae—he helped people, bought computers for the school.”

“Not that. This was something else—something major. Big-deal kokua.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know—before my time. But I can hook you up at headquarters with the guy that put out the word. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“The chief?”

“Deputy chief, field operations. Name is Malo. I’ll make an appointment for you. He probably doesn’t know that Max wen’ make.”

“I was real sorry to hear he pass,” Deputy Chief Malo said when they told him they’d come to discuss Max Mulgrave. The man’s simple statement did not match the sorrow and incomprehension that showed on his face, convulsed in grief. Sitting behind his desk he was an imposing Hawaiian presence, with an enormous, oddly geometric head, as though carved in wood by an amateur, with odd flat planes on his skull, his black hair lustrous in the sunlight from the window, and under his bony brow eyes shining with tears. He lifted his big hands to his face and held on, stifling a sob, gagging a little, loosening a lock of hair that dropped past one ear.

“Good guy,” Olive said.

“Pono guy,” Malo said, insisting. “The best.”

“You know how he died?” Sharkey asked.

“I saw the report—DeSouza just sent it. Was, what? Coupla months ago?”

“Yeah, Waimea, that bad corner. It was raining,” Sharkey said. “All my fault. I killed him.”

“You was sober?”

“Half drunk,” Sharkey said.

“You was driving impaired,” Malo said, losing his grief in a rush of anger and regaining his voice of authority, pushing his hair back. “You killed a good man.”

Olive said, “Joe is trying to make it right. We want to know as much as we can about him.”