Page 51 of Tiki Beach
“It was a small service for one who has given much to our community,” he replied simply, then left, sliding the door closed behind him.
Alone in the quiet meditation room, I sat cross-legged on one of the cushions and placed the lotus box before me. The key fit perfectly into a small lock on the front, turning with a soft click that seemed loud in the stillness.
The box opened to reveal contents quite different from the crane box. Instead of a journal and maps, this one contained what appeared to be old photographs and letters, carefully preserved in tissue paper. I lifted out the first photograph—a black and white image of a Japanese family standing proudly in front of a traditional garden. The back bore a date: “Yamamoto Family, 1939.”
The next several photos documented what appeared to be the construction and operation of the Japanese garden that had preceded the internment camp on Pearl’s property. In one, a man I assumed was Pearl’s grandfather stood beside the crane statue that had been the centerpiece of the garden.
The letters were in Japanese, which I couldn’t read, though some had English translations attached. They seemed to be correspondence between Pearl’s father and various officials after the war, documenting his efforts to reclaim the family property and seek justice for what had happened at the processing center.
While clearly of historical value, nothing in the box seemed to provide new evidence about the Santos-Akana conspiracy or direct proof connecting them to Pearl’s poisoning. It was an important historical archive, but not the smoking gun I’d hoped for.
Disappointed, I carefully replaced the items, wondering if I’d missed something. Pearl had called this “the other half of the truth,” suggesting it contained crucial information. Yet all I saw were historical documents that essentially confirmed what we already knew.
As I prepared to close the box, something caught my eye—a slight irregularity in the wood grain at the bottom of the interior. Looking closer, I noticed that what appeared to be the bottom panel didn’t quite match the side walls in color and texture.
“A false bottom,” I murmured, remembering Keone’s comment about the crane box being a Japanese puzzle box. This one likely had a similar hidden compartment.
I examined the box carefully, looking for any indication of how to access the secret space. After several minutes of unsuccessful attempts, I noticed a small, almost invisible seam near one corner. Pressing it yielded no result, but when I applied pressure to the opposite corner simultaneously, I heard a faint click.
The false bottom lifted slightly, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. Inside lay a single item: another key, larger than the one for the box itself, with a small tag attached. The tag bore a name and a number: “First Hawaiian Bank, Box 722.”
A safety deposit box key. This had to be related to the box Lei was investigating at the bank! I quickly secured both the lotus box and the safety deposit key in my bag, then called Keone as promised.
“The temple box contained old photographs and letters, plus a hidden compartment with a safety deposit key for First Hawaiian Bank, Box 722. Is that the same box Lei is looking into?”
“Yes,” Keone confirmed, his voice tense with excitement. “Lei’s with the manager now. Apparently, someone tried to access Pearl’s box yesterday using fake identification. The manager got suspicious and refused access, then called Lei this morning when he made the connection to her case.”
“I’m on my way.” I was already heading for the door. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said, thanking Venerable Sonam with a quick bow as I hurried through the main sanctuary.
The drive to First Hawaiian Bank was supposed to take up to twenty minutes in a rideshare and took ten more to arrive, so I was later than I’d hoped.
The bank occupied a modern building in downtown, its glass and steel architecture a stark contrast to the traditional temple I’d just left. I knocked on the locked glass doors, and Keone let me inside, giving me a quick hug. “You’re just in time. Things are getting interesting. Follow me.”
I trailed his broad-shouldered silhouette through the unlighted lobby to the manager’s office, where I found Lei seated across from a nervous-looking man in his fifties whose shiny nameplate identified him as “Gregory Kwan, Branch Manager.”
“Glad you made it, Kat,” Lei greeted me. “Mr. Kwan was just showing us the security footage from yesterday’s attempted access.”
“And I have the key to Pearl’s safe deposit,” I said, producing the safety deposit key from my pocket.
Mr. Kwan’s eyebrows rose. “I haven’t seen that in a while. Ms. Yamamoto has maintained this box for over thirty years, with very infrequent access—only a few times in the past decade.”
“May I see the footage too?” I asked, taking a seat beside Keone.
Mr. Kwan turned his computer monitor so we could all view it.
The footage showed the bank’s safety deposit viewing area, where a man in a business suit was speaking with a bank employee. Though the angle wasn’t ideal, I immediately recognized the visitor.
“That’s David Santos,” I exclaimed. “The mayor’s son.”
“Kat had a run-in with him recently. He confronted Kat at the cultural center, and he’s been blocking Pearl’s permits for the Heritage Garden project,” Keone said.
“The documents he presented seemed authentic at first glance,” Mr. Kwan said. “Authorization from Ms. Yamamoto allowing her ‘nephew’ to access the box in her absence. But something felt off about the interaction. And when I asked for additional identification, he became agitated, then left.”
“What tipped you off?” Lei asked.
“Two things,” the manager replied. “First, I’ve known Ms. Yamamoto as a client for many years, and she’s never mentioned any nephew here on the island. Second, the authorization document had yesterday’s date on it, but I knew from the news that Ms. Yamamoto has been hospitalized and is still alive.”
“What happens now?” I asked. “Can we access the box with the key I found?”
