“The murderer,” Malo said, widening his eyes, in a voice of correction, “was one haole college professor. No joke. Leading a double life—classroom life and low-life. He thinks he can get away with it, because, hey, who cares about hookers? Plus the perp had good cover—who’s gonna look in a college for a haole murder suspect?”

“But you caught him,” Olive said.

“Because we got one tip. A lady ID’d his car. We trace the car to the college, over Windward Side. Max gave us the technology to track him. This was early days of GPS—testing stage. But Max had friends in the business, because he’s a tech guy. We followed the guy’s every movement without him knowing, and one night—maybe two a.m.—we bust him. He’s with a hooker, he got a Taser, he’s ready to pounce, but we pounce first. All those ladies you see at the funeral? Three or four of them testify against him. He have a good lawyer with a bullshit story of how he carry a Taser for protection. But we have something special in our favor.”

He smiled and paused, as though to encourage Olive to ask what the special advantage was. She glanced at Sharkey, who was slumped in his chair but facing the TV monitor as though replaying the elaborate funeral in his memory, like a glittering succession of afterimages.

“So what did you have in your favor?” Olive said.

“Money,” Malo said, savoring his reply. “Big money. Money for lawyers, money for Officer Ah Wong’s medical bills, money for the force to upgrade our surveillance.” He smiled again. “Max’s money.”

“When did all this take place—the arrest, the trial, the funeral?”

“Early on, when Max was one malihini in Wai‘anae. But we never forget it. He stay in our good books, like a hero. He tattoo her name on his arm—Chinese kine.”

“Do you know anything about Max’s ex-wife?”

“She threaten come stalking him. That’s why he applied for a handgun license, because she verbalizing threats. He took out a TRO—we have her contact address. My secretary, Mable, has all those details, but it could be out-of-date. Was long time ago.”

Snatching and straightening papers on his desk, Malo made a show of being busy, ignoring Sharkey and Olive, and then, when they displayed signs of leaving, Sharkey stretching, Olive groping in her bag for her car keys, Malo got up and went to the door of his office and opened it.

“Amazing story, eh?” he said. “Like a legend. Max Mulgrave legend. Okay, gotta get back to work, folks.”

Olive was still sitting, though, with her keys in her hand, stilled by a struggle with logic, too preoccupied to stand up.