I puffed on my pipe as I watched the ground attendants manhandle the ramp into position next to the United Airlines DC-9. The perspiration was already forming on my forehead, a result of the hot Hawaiian morning and anxiety over meeting my new boss. My eyes were riveted on the airplane. After a moment the metal door opened and fell back against the side of the plane with a loud clang. A pretty stewardess stepped out carefully and positioned herself to help the passengers disembark.

I watched patiently as dozens of passengers--tourists in heavy winter clothing and some savvy businessmen in light suits--streamed out of the plane. It took forever, but fortunately, patience is one of my few virtues. Finally, a Navy officer, a Lieutenent Commander, stepped out. He stood straight and tall for a moment, looking southeast, as though searching for the Honolulu skyline. He removed sunglasses from his breast pocket and put them on. I thought he looked sharp in his dark blue uniform, like a real hard nose. After a moment the officer started down the metal stairs. He noticed me watching him and returned my stare almost defiantly.

"You McGarrett?" I asked when the officer reached the ground. For a moment I felt like an insect being studied under a microscope.

"Yeah. You Kelly?"

I nodded.

"Don't take this wrong, friend, but you don't look Irish. Got any I.D.?"

I chuckled, even though I had heard the same thing a dozen times before; this time though, it wasn't a joke. I reached into my jacket pocket. "They told me you were careful," I said, opening a small brown wallet to reveal a detective's gold shield and an I.D. card. I handed it to McGarrett who studied it for a moment before handing it back.

McGarrett visibly relaxed a little. "Sorry. Too many years behind the iron curtain," he said. "I hope this job will be less stressful." He offered his hand.

"Amen, bruddah," I said, hoping I sounded cheerful. I pumped McGarrett's hand enthusiastically. "You must be exhausted. Let's get your luggage and I'll take you to your hotel."

"No luggage. No hotel."

"Auwe! Don't you know this is tourist season?" I said. What kind of fool comes to Hawaii in January without a hotel reservation?

McGarrett nodded. "I'll make do. Let's go to work."

I shrugged. "You're the boss. We should get you to the governor's office first thing. Get you sworn in."

"Let's do it," McGarrett said confidently and headed for the terminal. I had to hurry to keep up with my younger, longer-legged new boss. I couldn't think of anything else to say and he was being pretty tight-lipped himself, so we walked silently through the busy Honolulu terminal and out the front. I had parked my sedan in the red "no parking" zone, one of the perks of being a cop.

"What kind of staff do we have?" McGarrett asked after I glided the sedan into the jet stream of airport traffic.

"You and me, boss. And a secretary."

"Great," McGarrett said. "I'm supposed to run a state-wide criminal investigation unit with two cops."

"It's a small state," I offered.

McGarrett smirked. "Sure. We can drive around it in a day. What about an office? Or do we have to work out of our cars?"

"Prime real estate, right next to the governor's office in Iolani Palace."

"Next to the governor? That's bad."

"Bad? How you figure?" Was he crazy? The State Treasurer almost resigned over not getting that office.

McGarrett shook his head. "First rule of bureaucracy. Proximity to the source of political power means we'll be more in politics than law enforcement if we're not careful."

I chewed over that one for a minute. My new boss seemed wise beyond his years. I'd been a cop for years and had never given the politics of law enforcement a second thought. Being a cop was pretty straightforward to me: find'em, arrest'em, and lock'em up. "You ever been a cop before?" I asked when we got to the highway.

"Not exactly."

"Shore Patrol?"

"Nope."

"Private security work?" I was beginning to feel like a dentist; getting information out of this haole was like pulling teeth.

McGarrett removed his sunglasses and turned in his seat so he could look squarely at me. His eyes were so dark and cold that I shivered mentally. Suddenly I was glad I was a cop, not a crook. I wouldn't want this kane after me. "I've been with the Office of Naval Intelligence for the last ten years," he said, "ever since I graduated from the Academy. I can't talk about most of what I've done. Okay?"

"Okay, boss," I said. I wanted to know more, but I knew I would have to earn his trust first. I've worked with some of the intelligence boys at Pearl and I know.

"What about you?" McGarrett asked. I got the feeling the question was more professional than personal. He wanted to know whether he could put his life in my hands. I resisted the impulse to tell him what a damned good cop I was.

"Ten years with H.P.D.," I said. "Last two years as a detective. Before that, a couple years in the army, military police."

For the rest of the trip to the Iolani Palace I pointed out landmarks, trying to help McGarrett get his bearings. Honolulu isn't very big by mainland standards, but living on an island could be disconcerting at first. I explained that there's no north, south, east, and west on the island, only maka'i--toward the sea--, mauka--toward the mountains--, ewa--away from Diamond Head--, and Diamond Head--toward Diamond Head. I took a short detour, driving down Hotel street to let McGarrett get his first taste of the slimier side of paradise. Didn't want him thinking we were all pineapples and sunshine. The streets could be pretty mean at times. When I got to the palace I pulled the sedan into one of two parking spots out front reserved for Five-0.

The swearing-in was brief and without fanfare. McGarrett and Governor Jameson--Hawaii's first governor--had never met. The Governor had had too much on his plate and had asked Walter Stewart, the Attorney General, to recommend the inaugural staff for the new Five-0 organization. I was one of ten HPD detectives Stewart interviewed for the position. I didn't know what McGarrett's connection was. I tried to blend in with the woodwork while I watched Jameson and McGarrett size each other up. They both looked awfully young for their jobs, but then, maybe that was the idea. Young state, young officials. Time would tell whether they could play hardball.

After McGarrett was sworn in I took him down the hall to the new Five-0 office. It wasn't much, but it was home. A large outer office in need of paint and carpeting, several desks, and a row of beat up old file cabinets salvaged from other offices. Some cubicles were along the outer wall with folding doors and standard government issue desks. The newly hired secretary, May Rhodes, sat behind the farthest desk busily typing labels for file folders. Behind her was a door, the name "McGarrett" already painted on a small plaque.

"That's your office, Commander," I said, pointing. "I'm out here in the bullpen."

McGarrett removed his hat and stood silently for a moment studying the office. "It's 'Steve,'" he said after a moment. He turned to May. "Would you call the B.O.Q. at Pearl for me? See if you can get me a room. And have them send someone to the Navy depot to pick up my sea chest. It's supposed to arrive by air freight this afternoon from Berlin."

"Sure thing, Steve," May said cheerfully. I'd known May four years--she used to work for H.P.D.-- and she was always cheerful. It could get on your nerves sometimes.

McGarrett walked to the door to his office, hesitating for a moment before he turned the door knob and entered. I didn't wait for an invitation and followed him in.

"We thought you'd want to pick out your own furnishings, Steve," I said when we entered the nearly bare office, "so we got just the bare essentials." There was a large executive desk and high-backed chair in one corner. Two white leather chairs faced it. Behind them, next to the inner wall, was a white leather sofa. The outer walls were almost solid windows. This office had been freshly painted, a pleasing shade of ocean blue, and new carpet had been laid.

McGarrett walked over to the French doors on the outer wall, opened them, and looked out. "Nice porch," he said.

I chuckled. "It might be a porch in Kansas," I said, "but in Hawaii it's a 'lanai.'"

McGarrett turned and for the first time, he smiled. He didn't look nearly as cold and hard when he smiled. "I guess I have a lot to learn about Hawaii. I hope you'll help me."

"Never been here before?" I asked, imagining that I would have to wet nurse him for a few weeks while he got his bearings.

"Once, but not for long. Mostly I've been stationed in eastern Europe and the Soviet Union." He reached into his pocket and removed the small leather wallet the governor had given him. He opened it and looked at the gold badge and ID card it contained. After a moment, he looked up. "What about a weapon?" he asked.

"You've got to take a test and be certified. I got you an appointment at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow."

McGarrett nodded. I could almost see him running down a check list in his mind. Get sworn in. See the office. Get a weapon.

"A car?"

"Being delivered tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile, I'm your chauffer."

"I need a copy of the state criminal code, the police manual, and a state government organization manual."

I pointed to the small bookcase behind the desk. "Just about everything you need to get started should be there."

McGarrett ran his hand through his thick brown hair. He looked at me, his eyes softening a bit. "Guess the first thing I should do is get some civilian clothes. Take me to a good men's shop?"

"I know just the place."

A few minutes later we were on Beretania street heading to the retail district. My cousin owns a high class men's shop there. Knew he'd give my new boss a good deal on some suits. McGarrett was quiet, taking in the city sights.

"What was that street you took me down earlier?" he asked after a few minutes. "The one with all the hookers?"

I looked at McGarrett and grinned. "How you know they were hookers?"

"I'm in the Navy. I know a street walker when I see one."

I laughed, glad to see that McGarrett had a sense of humor. He would need it. "That was Hotel Street, our high-crime district. Everything goes on down there. Prostitution, gambling, drugs, violence."

"Gangs?"

"We've got our share. Mostly Chinese. Real tough guys."

Suddenly the police radio squawked. "Central to Kelly."

I picked up the microphone. "Kelly here."

"187M at 8805 Kealoi Street. HPD requests Five-0 at the scene."

"Ten-four, Central. Kelly out." I gunned the car and headed mauka.

"What's a 187M?" McGarrett asked.

"Multiple homicide. Kealoii Street is in St. Louis Heights. Not far from where I live."

"What's Five-0's jurisdiction?"

I turned for a moment, surprised by the question. This guy is one sharp fortune cookie, I thought. "General Assembly was real vague about that. 'general criminal investigation" is how they worded it I think. Chief Lulanaki has been waiting for you to arrive so something can be worked out. In the meantime we agreed HPD would call in Five-0 on all homicides where there was no suspect at the scene."

After a few minutes we approached a small, white frame house in a modest residential neighborhood. It looked a lot like my house. Two black-and-whites and the crime lab van were parked outside. Here and there, neighbors stood, pensively watching the police. I always hate walking past the neighbors, their eyes tugging at me, wanting to ask but afraid to. It gives me the creeps. I pulled the sedan up to the curb, next to a fire hydrant, and we got out.

One uniformed policeman stood at the side porch door. I could see an arm and hand on the porch floor, reaching out through the door, jarring it open. I pulled McGarrett in that direction.

"Hey, Chin," the uniformed officer said in greeting when I approached. He cast a suspicious eye on McGarrett. "Is the Navy in this somehow?" he asked.

I slowly pushed open the porch door with the back of my hand, concentrating on the crime scene. "He's with me," I said absently. The arm and hand were attached to the body of an elderly Japanese man. He lay on his stomach, one arm underneath him, the other protruding through the door opening. A large puddle of blood was collecting under and beside him on the wood floor. "Who's this guy?" I asked, referring to the corpse.

"Neighbor. Name's Henry Wondo. We figure he heard the two inside screaming, came to help. Wrong time, wrong place. Got whacked himself."

"Lab boys looked at this one yet?"

"No, they're inside, with the other two."

I closed the screen door carefully and backed away. I didn't want to disturb the crime scene before the lab technicians had their turn. I signalled McGarrett to go with me.

Another uniformed officer stood guard inside the front door. I slapped him on the back. "Aloha, Duke. How's that new baby?"

The officer--young despite the flock of silver hair on his head--smiled the smile of a new father. "Loud and hungry, Chin," he said. "Just like his old man."

I thought to introduce McGarrett. "Duke, this is Steve McGarrett, new head of Five-0. Just picked him up at the airport. Steve, this is Duke Lukela. Best partner I ever had, and he was only a rookie at the time."

McGarrett shook hands with Lukela. "Whaddawe got here, Duke?" he asked.

Lukela led McGarrett and Kelly down a short, narrow hall past a bathroom to a door at the end. "Neighbor kid saw the arm and hand sticking out of the porch door and ran home for his mother. She took one look and called H.P.D. When we got here, Sandy--that's my partner, he's outside at the porch door--Sandy went in here first. The lab techs have already been in." He opened the door. It was a small bedroom.

A body was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. We advanced carefully. It was a little girl, about five years old. Her throat had been cut with such violence that she was practically decapitated. Her blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Blood drenched the front of her white playsuit and mixed with her golden hair.

We knelt down to take a closer look. Without warning, McGarrett stood and lurched toward the door and down the hall toward the bathroom. I could hear the sounds of a man retching, followed by a toilet flushing.

"First one?" I asked softly when McGarrett came back to the room, his face hardened.

"First child," McGarrett said in a low monotone voice, his voice taking that same hard edge it had when he asked me for my ID at the airport. "Won't happen again," he said. "Sandy said there were two inside. Where's the other one?" he asked Duke.

Duke pointed toward the kitchen. "I should warn you, it's worse."

McGarrett nodded grimly and headed for the kitchen. I waited a moment and then began to follow him. Duke stopped me at the door.

"What do you think of him?" Duke asked, nodding in McGarrett's direction. "Can he handle it?"

I shrugged. "Too soon to tell," I said quietly. I followed McGarrett through the living room and into the kitchen. It was a modest bungalow, a lot like my own house. There was a Raggedy Ann doll on the sofa and a couple of Life magazines on the coffee table. It made me want to call home to make sure everything was okay.

Duke was right. The kitchen was worse. For a few moments I thought I might have to run to the bathroom too. The medical examiner and a lab technician went about their gruesome work while McGarrett studied the scene without flinching.

The body on the kitchen table was a woman, about thirty-two, tall, slender, probably pretty but it was hard to tell with all the blood. She had the same golden blonde hair and blue eyes as the little girl. She lay on her back with her buttocks near the end of the table, her legs hanging limply. Her hands were tied to either leg at the other end of the table, with what looked like two aprons. Her yellow dress was torn open violently in front exposing her breasts, and the skirt was pulled up around her waist. Her panties were still on her hips but the crotch had been cut. Her throat had been cut too, but not as violently as the little girl's. There were also several cutting wounds in her chest and cuts on her arms and legs.

"Was she assaulted?" McGarrett asked, instinctively using the cop's less violent euphemism for rape. There is something about that word that is hard for decent men to say.

The M.E. looked up from his work and looked at McGarrett. His eyes narrowed for a moment when he saw the Naval uniform. Doc Bergman had become medical examiner for the City and County of Honolulu just a few months before. He was young for the job, but already had the look of a gruff country doctor, and was somewhat lacking in basic social skills. "You her husband?" he said after a moment. "You shouldn't be in here." He looked at me like he expected me to clear the room.

I stepped forward. "Doc, this is Steve McGarrett, new head of Five-0. I just picked him up at the airport. Steve, this is Doctor Bergman, medical examiner for the City and County of Honolulu."

McGarrett nodded and stepped closer to the table, being careful not to step in any blood or debris. "Was she assaulted?" he asked again.

"And sodomized," Bergman said. "And, if I had to guess, I'd say tortured."

"Tortured?" I asked. "How?"

Bergman pointed at the cuts on the victim's arms and legs. "Call it instinct, but I think he took his time cutting her."

McGarrett backed away from the table and stood silently for a moment. Again I got the impression that he was running down a checklist in his mind. I was about to suggest a few things when McGarrett turned to the lab technician.

"Any prints?" he asked.

"Plenty," the tech said, "it'll take days to sort them all out."

McGarrett nodded solemnly. "What about the murder weapon?" he asked Bergman. "Did he bring it with him or get it here?"

Bergman looked up from his work, apparently unhappy at being interrupted. I'd noticed that about Bergman; he was impatient with cops, not a good personality trait for a medical examiner. "My guess is he brought it with him. See this seration," he pointed to points on several of the wounds. "This is more consistent with a hunting knife than a kitchen knife. And," he pointed to a knife block on the counter next to the stove, "there aren't any knives missing from that block and that would be the most obvious place for him to have gotten one if he hadn't brought one with him."

"How long's she been dead?" McGarrett asked. He slowly walked around the table, studying the body and the rest of the kitchen from all angles. I wondered whether McGarrett knew about spiral searches--a standard investigatory search pattern--or was just doing it instinctively.

Bergman scratched his head. "Based on postmorten lividity, a couple hours. I'd say between 6:00 and 9:00 this morning. But that's just an educated guess."

"Thanks, Doc," McGarrett said. He signalled me to come with him into the living room. I was glad to get out of the kitchen. I've seen a lot of blood and a lot of death as a cop, but never anything as brutal as that.

"Chin, canvass the neighbors. See what you can find out. Have Duke help you. I'm going to look around the house."

"Right, boss," I said. I could already guess what the neighbors would say. She was such a nice woman, kept to herself, never caused any trouble. That's what the neighbors always say. Maybe I'd get lucky, find out something useful.

Forty-five minutes and a dozen neighbors later, I was back in the house. The three bodies were bagged now, waiting to be loaded in the coroner's van. I found McGarrett in the master bedroom, sitting at a small desk. The drawers were all pulled open and a small metal lock box sat on top of the desk.

"Got anything?" he asked when he saw me.

"Maybe," I said, sitting on the corner of the bed. My feet were killing me. I opened my small notebook. "The woman's name is Sarah Hopewell. The little girl is her daughter, Amy. Sarah teaches at Pahana Elementary, a few blocks from here. They're on Christmas break right now."

"Single?"

"Divorced. Ex-husband is Alexander Hopewell. Owns a fancy restaurant downtown. Caters to businessmen during the day and tourists at night. Married five years, divorced three years ago."

"Friendly divorce?"

"One of the neighbors is a beautician, hears all the gossip. Says Sarah caught her husband fooling around one of his waitresses. Was ugly for a while. Not a friendly divorce she said, but not violent either."

"Maybe it turned violent."

"Maybe. I'll pick him up." I looked at the papers he had spread out on the desk. "You find anything?"

"Probably not," he said, picking up the lock box. "I found her personal papers. I'll go through them."

On the way back to the office I drove by Mama Kanapa's Cafe and we picked up a couple sweet kona coffees. McGarrett hardly said a word during the ride back, just drank his coffee. I could see there wouldn't be much shootin' the breeze with him.

"I doubt the husband did it," he said when we were only a block from the palace. "But bring him in anyway. He might know something."

I tossed him a quizzical look and decided it was time to do a little schooling on the subject of murder. "Crimes of passion real common, Steve," I said, trying not to sound too condescending. "It's an old story. Husband and wife, arguing, get mad--"

"The killer wasn't motivated by passion," McGarrett said so softly I could barely hear him. "No husband would do that to his wife, no matter how angry he was. No husband could do that to someone he once loved. This killing was for revenge. I can feel it in my gut."

"Revenge? Revenge for what?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice taking on that hard edge again. "But I'll find out."

We drove in silence for the rest of the way to the palace. McGarrett busied himself rooting through Sarah Hopewell's lockbox, reading documents and letters. I could see the words "Divorce Decree" at the top of one set of papers. He took his time reading that. When we got to the palace, I dropped him off and headed downtown.

I found Alexander Hopewell at his restaurant, "The New Hawaiian." It was one of Honolulu's ritzier restaurants. With high prices, fancy decor, and no children's menu, it catered to businesses showing off clients, and to rich, childless tourists. Needless to say, I've never eaten there.

Hopewell was in the kitchen. He was none too happy about leaving the restaurant just as they were preparing for the lunch rush, and I was treated to a telling flash of anger. Maybe he had had one of those flashes with his wife this morning. We didn't talk on the ride back to the palace.

When we got there, I showed Hopewell into Steve's office. I pointed Hopewell toward one of the chairs facing Steve's desk and took a seat on the sofa myself. I was looking forward to seeing my new boss's technique in questioning a homicide suspect.

Steve had his nose buried in some papers on his desk. I noticed that he had ditched his uniform jacket and removed the Lieutenant Commander's oak leaves from his collar; without them he looked like any other civilian in a white shirt with a blue tie. After Hopewell and I got situated, he looked up. I was surprised to see compassion in his face, like he sincerely felt sorry for this guy.

"Mr. Hopewell," he said quietly. "I'm sorry to have to tell you about your wife and daughter."

Hopewell didn't say anything for a moment. "What are you talking about? Who are you?" he said finally.

"I'm Steve McGarrett, head of the state police," McGarrett said. "Your ex-wife and daughter were murdered early this morning." Pretty straight forward, I thought. I guess there really wasn't any use beating around the bush.

Hopewell seemed genuinely stunned and asked all the expected questions before breaking down and sobbing. McGarrett waited patiently for a few moments and let the man cry. Finally, he broke in. "Mr. Hopewell," he said in a soft voice, "where were you this morning?"

Hopewell looked up. I couldn't see his face, but I could guess that he knew why McGarrett was asking. "At my restaurant," he said, his voice strained and gravelly. "I always get to my restaurant by 6:00 a.m. The morning is the only time I get to do the scheduling and payroll. I've been there all day."

"Can anyone verify that for us?"

"The head chef and several of his assistants were there when I arrived. All my staff can confirm that I've been there all morning."

McGarrett tossed a glance at me which I interpreted to mean he wanted me to check it out. I nodded.

"Do you have any idea who would do this to her?" McGarrett asked.

I saw Hopewell shake his head. He started sobbing again and I could just barely hear him say, "After all she's been through...."

"What do you mean?" McGarrett asked. "What had she been through?"

Hopewell looked up. "Fifteen years ago, before I met her, she was the victim of a violent attack. She wouldn't talk much about it, but I know she almost died then." He bowed his head and I could hear him choking back his tears. "No one should have to go through that twice," he said after a moment and started sobbing again.

McGarrett stood and walked around to the front of his desk. He hitched up one leg and perched himself on the corner of the desk. He waited for Hopewell to continue. I'll give him credit for patience.

"She was a teenager when it happened," Hopewell began again a minute later. "All I know is that she was attacked on the way home from school. A forest ranger found her two days later in the woods, beaten, raped. She was in the hospital for weeks."

McGarrett looked up at me and I was startled for a minute by the look in his eyes. It was obvious to me that the case had become personal to him. Maybe it was seeing the little girl the way he did, maybe it was the woman. Whatever it was, I could tell from the steel hard look in his eyes that he wouldn't let up until we solved this case.

"Did they catch the monster who did it?" McGarrett asked.

Hopewell nodded. "He went to prison. That's all I know. She never wanted to talk about it and I didn't press her. What's past is past," he said, his voice full of resignation.

McGarrett nodded at me, indicating that he was finished. I took Hopewell to the outer office and arranged for HPD to take him to the coroner to identify the bodies and then take him home. When I got back to McGarrett's office he was sorting through some papers he had removed from the Sarah Hopewell's lock box.

"Want me to check his alibi, boss?" I asked.

"Hmmmm?" McGarrett said, apparently not really listening to me. He looked up and then realized what I had asked. "Later, Chin, if you have time. First I want to find the records of the case Hopewell told us about, when Sarah was a teenager. I want to know what happened to the guy who was convicted."

I let out a whistle. "Fifteen years ago. They might have been destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"Maybe on purpose, maybe by the war. Things were crazy here in the early 40s."

"See what you can find out."

Half an hour later I was back with the bad news. "Sorry, Steve. I had HPD search under Sarah Hopewell's maiden name, Compton, and under Hopewell, just in case. Most of the records for the early forties are pau."

McGarrett furrowed his brow and tossed me a questioning look. "Pau?"

"Sorry," I said. "Pau means gone, finished, done."

McGarrett nodded his understanding and held up a small piece of paper. "Do you know this guy?" he asked.

I reached out and took the paper from him. It was an HPD business card, a littled battered and old looking. The name printed in the center was Herman "Doc" Manua, Detective Sergeant.

"Sure," I said. "Doc Manua was a living legend in Hawaiian law enforcement. Quite a character, and a damned good detective."

"Was?" McGarrett asked. "Is he still alive?"

"That kanaka is too damned stubborn to die. He retired a few years ago. Lives out in Ke'ehi Lagoon on his boat."

"Look on the back of the card."

I turned over the card and did as I directed. "If you need me, call. I'll be there for you. Doc." I looked up at Steve and waited for him to make his point.

"Maybe Manua was the detective assigned to Sarah's case."

The light suddenly went on in my head and I saw where McGarrett was heading. Maybe Manua would remember the attacker and know what happened to him.

"Can you get him on the phone?" McGarrett asked.

"No phone. He lives like a hermit. You wanna see Doc Manua, you gotta go to him."

"Let's go then," McGarrett said, grabbing his jacket, then thinking better of it and tossing it on the sofa. Not many civilian suits have gold braid on the cuffs.

"Take me to see Doc Manua," he said, taking long strides through the office and virtually leaping down the palace stairs. Either he was going to have to take a slower pace or I was going to have to start working out and get in better shape, and I had a feeling I knew which it would be.

We were going ewa, so I took Hotel Street again to give McGarrett another chance to look it over, now that he knew it was our crime district. Most of the street walkers were gone; there's not much business in the afternoon. It would pick up again around supper time; by midnight the whores and drug dealers would be out in force.

"What's that place?" McGarrett asked, pointing at a pool hall on the corner of Hotel and Bethel. A half dozen men were hanging around out front. One of them was slapping around a woman, presumably one of his stable of prostitutes. I took another look. Maybe "woman" wasn't a good word; she didn't look like she could have been more than fifteen or sixteen.

I slowed the car as we approached the corner. "That's Eddie's Pool Hall," I said. "Most of the pimps hang out there while their girls work. Can be a pretty dangerous place."

"Pull over," McGarrett said.

"What?" Was he out of his mind?

"Pull over, I said." Before I could stop the car McGarrett was out the door, taking long strides toward the man who was slapping the girl. Real quick I called for back up.

When McGarrett reached the couple he grabbed the man's arm and wrenched it backwards.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you that little boys don't hit little girls?" he asked, his voice again with that hard edge that unnerved me.

Now that I was closer I could see who McGarrett was tangling with. It was Joey Yang, one of the meaner small time hoods who roamed Hotel Street. He had about fifteen girls working for him and controlled the numbers for a three square block area. I was glad I had called for back up.

Joey's face contorted with pain as McGarrett pulled his arm backwards and up. I saw Joey reach into his pocket with his other hand and pull out a switchblade. I heard it snap open, but before I could pull my revolver, McGarrett's knocked the knife out of Joey's grasp with his free hand and kicked it in my direction. Nice move, I thought. No wasted motion.

Three of the others guys moved toward McGarrett but I moved forward and waved them away with my gun.

"Don't even think about it, bruddahs," I said, handing McGarrett a pair of cuffs which he slapped on Joey Yang like he had used them before. I relaxed a little when I heard a siren a few blocks away. I knew it would be just a few more seconds before we'd have some muscle to back us up.

McGarrett pushed Yang to the ground and glared at the other men. "My name's McGarrett," he said, "new head of the state police. Things are gonna be different around here from now on. Go tell your friends."

The men didn't move, stunned, I thought, by McGarrett's brazeness. McGarrett took a few steps toward them and they backed off, going back into Eddie's. That was the first time I'd ever seen those kanakas intimidated by anyone or anything.

By the time H.P.D. arrived, McGarrett was talking to the young prostitute. I was right, she was only sixteen, a runaway, seduced by Joey Yang and then put to work. She was crying and wanted to go home. McGarrett was almost gentle as he coaxed her into the black-and-white and assured her that the juvenile authorities would take care of her and help her patch things up with her parents. A few minutes later Joey Yang was on his way to the lockup, facing charges of battery, resisting arrest, and, just for the hell of it, attempted murder of a police officer; the girl was on the way to juvenile hall; and McGarrett and I were once again heading for Ke'ehi Lagoon.

The lagoon was a pretty sleepy place, maybe ten, twelve boats tied up. I spotted Doc Manua's boat at the far end of the dock with several empty berths between him and the next boat. That's the way Doc always liked it. He was a real loner.

"Aloha!" I yelled when I reached the boat. "Anyone aboard?"

We heard some noises coming from the boat and then a head poked up from the engine compartment. It was Doc. He had aged some, and hadn't seen a barber in some time. A full-blooded Hawaiian, he had the classic Hawaiian face and hair, though the hair was tinged with gray now. He smiled the broadest smile I have ever seen.

"Chin!" he shouted, pulling himself up out of the hole. When he got to the deck he pulled out a handkerchief and used it to move around the grease on his face. "You finally come to visit ole' Doc!"

I felt a pang of guilt because Doc has invited me to the Marina everytime I've run into him since he retired. It took a murder investigation and my new haole boss to get me down here.

"Here on business, Doc. You never told me how much work being a detective was," I said, trying to put a good face on it. "We need your help."

Doc wiped his greasy hands on a towel that he had slung over his shoulder and eyed McGarrett. I could feel him sizing him up. Doc had a sixth sense about people; he could tell right away whether a person was hiki no.

"You're Steve McGarrett, aren't you?" Doc asked, reaching out his right hand and smiling at Steve.

"Apparently Chin was right," Steve said, taking Doc's hand and shaking it firmly. "You do know everything that goes on on this island."

Doc headed for the back of the boat and motioned toward some deck chairs. After we all sat, he continued. "Used to be my business to know everything. Now I just know what I read in the papers. How can Doc help?"

McGarrett reached into his shirt pocket and took out the yellowed business card he had found among Sarah Hopewell's belongings. He handed it to Doc. "This mean anything to you?"

Doc looked at it, turned it over, read the writing on the back. He looked at McGarrett. "I gave my card to lots of people, but I only wrote this to special people."

"Special?" McGarrett asked.

"Victims usually. Innocent victims of violent crime. Usually something about them made me take a personal interest. They were young, or weak, or alone. Whatever. I wanted them to know they had a friend. I still keep in touch with some of them. They've become like family."

"Do you remember Sarah Compton?"

Doc stared off over the horizon for a moment, trying to remember. "Pretty little thing. Only fifteen or sixteen I think. Abducted on her way home from school. She was in pretty bad shape when they found her. She kept in touch with me until she went off to college on the mainland. Why?"

"She was raped and murdered this morning." McGarrett didn't pull any punches.

Doc got that sad, hound dog look he was famous for. The one the victims and their families saw, the one that showed how much he cared. The criminals never saw that face. Never. He didn't say anything.

"Her husband said she had had some trouble when she was young," McGarrett continued. "We can't find any record of it. I found this card in her possessions and thought you might know something about it."

Doc nodded sadly. "Real nut case," he said. "A pupule haole kid, not more than nineteen or twenty himself. He snatched Sarah off the street one afternoon and entertained himself with her all night. Beat the hell out of her and did things to her that weren't...natural."

"You caught him?" McGarrett asked.

"Damn right I did," Doc said, his voice filled with the rage he must have remembered from nearly two decades ago. "I found that son of a bitch and dogged him until he made a mistake. Had an air tight case."

"What happened to him?"

"Got twenty to life in the state pen. I hope he rots there."

Nobody ever accused Doc of being soft on crime. He had his opinions and he spoke his mind. You always knew where you stood with Doc Mauna. I got out my notebook and asked, "Do you remember his name, Doc?"

"Hoover," Doc said immediately. "His first name was Frank, but everyone called him 'Buddy.' From a bad family. His old man was in Alcatraz, probably still is. His mother was no catch neither. All those Hoover boys were bums. He put on a real show at the trial. Screaming he'd get even with us, Sarah and me." Doc closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them they were clouded by tears.

I looked at McGarrett. We had what we needed and he was ready to go. He stood and offered his hand to Doc.

"Thanks for your help, Doc," he said. "I'd like to come back to talk to you sometime. I need a crash course on crime in Hawaii."

Doc's face glowed and he favored us with his big Hawaiian grin. "Great! You like to fish? We could catch us dinner and have a long talk. Doc gots lots he can tell you about these islands."

"It's a deal," McGarrett said. "I'll get in touch as soon as I get settled in."

In the car, Steve wanted to know about the state prison system. I had to laugh.

"Not exactly a system, boss," I said. "There's just Oahu Community Correctional Center, affectionately known as Oahu Prison. Its in the Kalihi area. Lot of heat on the legislature to tear it down and build something more modern."

I took the scenic route, but then just about any route on Oahu is scenic. By the time we got there McGarrett had pumped me dry of information about Joey Yang and the Hotel Street gang. I got the feeling McGarrett didn't care much for punks.

When we got to the prison, I got the same depressed feeling I always got when I went to that place. It was so old and decrepit that sometimes I thought that even criminals shouldn't be forced to live there. The legislature had been scrabbling for years over building a new one. Every legislator agreed that the conditions at Oahu Prison were deplorable and that Hawaii needed a new prison facility, but no one wanted it in his district.

The guard remembered me from HPD and didn't even bother checking our IDs. He and another guard bullied the ancient iron gate opened just enough and barely waited for our sedan to get through before they pushed it back. The administration building, a battered and rusty quonset hut left over from the war and brought here to help alleviate the overcrowding, was off to the left. I parked the sedan and we got out.

McGarrett got out and stood for a moment, looking around. "How old is this place?" he asked after a moment.

"Built in 1918," I said, "on a tight budget and with the philosophy that convicts deserve no luxuries."

McGarrett snorted. "I'd be interested in how they described 'luxuries,'" he said.

I nodded and pointed toward the hut. "The Warden's office," I said.

The inside of the quonset hut wasn't too bad. It had been subdivided into several smaller offices and and anteroom. A wood floor had been put down and several area rugs provided some comfort. The furniture was of the usual institutional standard and the whole place was painted an unoffensive but hardly aesthetic pale blue.

We announced our attentions to the secretary who went back to summon someone to help us. While we waited I noticed the secretary eyeing McGarrett. There probably is a shortage of attractive, single, unincarcerated men around here. He seemed oblivious to the attention.

After a moment, a short, rotund man with a receding hair line came out to see us.

"Harry Thurgood, Assistant Warden," he said jovially, pumping McGarrett's hand like they had been friends for years. "Glad to meet you. Always happy to help out the police. What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for Frank Hoover. He was sentenced to twenty to life back in the forties. Is he still here? We'd like to talk to him."

Thurgood nodded enthusiastically, apparently happy to be able to help. "Sure, Buddy's still here. Been a model inmate, at least for the last few years. Took him a while to acclimate. Let me call his cell block and have him brought over." He picked up the phone on the secretary's desk and dialed.

"Guess that shoots that theory," I said.

McGarrett scratched his head. "We'll see," he said.

We watched Thurgood scribble something down on a memo pad and hang up the phone.

"Well, Mr. McGarrett," he said, handing McGarrett the piece of paper he had just written on. "Sorry to say that Buddy isn't here."

"Isn't here?"

"He was granted a work release to work part time at the Pupukea pineapple farm. He and a couple other inmates work there two or three days a week. They work till eight and then the owner brings them back.

"Chin," Steve said, "do you know where that farm is?"

I nodded.

Steve asked Thurgood for a picture of Hoover. When the Assistant Warden pulled one out of Hoover's file, McGarrett shook his hand, thanked him for his help, and turned to me. "Let's go, Chin," he said, turning toward the door. He stopped, turning back to Thurgood. "One more thing, Mr. Thurgood," he said. "Your guards didn't stop us at the gate or ask for identification. Is it standard procedure to let just anyone enter?"

Thurgood turned red and fumbled with the memo pad he was holding. "No, Mr. McGarrett, it isn't. I'll have a talk with the guards about it."

McGarrett nodded and headed for the door again. When we were outside he said, "Remind me to speak to the Commissioner of Corrections about the conditions here, Chin." It occurred to me that I wouldn't want to be in Mr. Thurgood's shoes.

The entrance to Pupukea pineapple farm was about thirty minutes from Honolulu. It was small compared to the pineapple operations run on the Big Island. The owner was Hank Manatea, former member of the Territorial Legislature, now semi-retired.

When we got there I saw Manatea standing by the door of one of the wooden buildings--not quite a barn, but bigger than a shed--where harvesting supplies and equipment were stored. I could see that the workers were straggling in from the fields and Hank was collecting the canvas gloves he gave them to protect their hands. Harvesting is done by hand because pineapples must be picked when they are fully ripened. Workers move through the field, picking the fruits and placing them on long-armed harvest machine conveyors.

I identified Steve and myself to Manatea and inquired after Hoover.

"That's his crew coming in for lunch now," Manatea said, pointing off toward one of the fields. A group of eight or ten men was trudging slowly toward us. A surplus Army jeep carrying one man--presumably the foreman--rode along slowly beside them. Manatea pointed. "The one on the far left, with the red hat. That's Buddy."

Apparently Buddy saw Manatea pointing at him. He stopped, looking at the big black sedan and the two guys in business clothes. He put two-and-two together and came up with cops. He took off running back toward the field.

"Damn," I said under my breath. McGarrett's hunch was paying off. Before I could even move one foot, McGarrett was on the run. He wasn't a graceful runner but he was fast. Buddy was even less graceful and lots slower, but then he had been working in the field all morning. McGarrett quickly caught up and tackled him just before he reached the first row of pineapple plants. If Buddy had gotten in there we'd of lost him for sure. By the time I reached them McGarrett had him on the ground with his arms pulled behind him. I handed him some handcuffs and made a mental note to get McGarrett some of his own. He slapped the cuffs on Buddy and pulled him to his feet.

Buddy wasn't the most attractive guy I'd ever seen. Tall and lanky, with muscular, powerful-looking arms, he had a face that not even a mother could love, the result of hard living and fifteen years in prison. His eyes were what I noticed most. They were sharp and clear with as close as I'd seen to the look of evil in years. But maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

"So you got even after all these years, Buddy," McGarrett said. It wasn't a question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Buddy said in a way that meant he did know. "You ain't got nothing on me."

By this time the jeep had driven up and several of the other workers had formed a ring around us.

"What's going on," the man in the jeep asked. "You guys cops?"

I flashed my ID and asked him whether Buddy had been with him all day.

He hesitated for a moment before answering, and then he didn't sound so sure of himself. "Sure. We work as a group. Been with us since 6:00 a.m. this morning when I picked him up at the prison."

I looked at McGarrett. Maybe Buddy wasn't the face of evil after all.

"See," Buddy said smugly. "You ain't got nothin' on me. Let me go."

"Why'd you run, Buddy? Why did you take off when you saw us coming?"

Buddy's face twisted into what I suspected was a smile. "Always run from cops," he said. "That's what my daddy taught me."

McGarrett stared long and hard at Buddy and after a moment Buddy averted his eyes. Then he looked at me with that twisted smile. "I ain't done nothin'," he said. "Take these cuffs offa me. I wanna eat my lunch."

We held Buddy there while McGarrett talked to the foreman and I talked to the other workers. Most of them didn't know whether Buddy had left the group; they can't see each other the way they're spread out when they're picking. The foreman seemed evasive, McGarrett said, but he stood firm that Buddy hadn't left the group all day. Besides, there wasn't any way he could have walked to Sarah Hopewell's house and been back by lunchtime.

"Uncuff him, Chin," McGarrett said reluctantly. "His alibi is firm, at least for the time being," he said while we were walking back to the car.

McGarrett was pretty quiet for the ride back to the city, though I could tell he was fuming.

"Maybe I should check the husband's alibi now, Steve," I said, trying to break the chilly silence.

"Maybe," McGarrett conceded. "But Hoover's our man. I can feel it in my gut. We just have to figure out how he got to town without being missed at the plantation."

I nodded. What else could I do? He was the boss even if he didn't have any police experience. I would humor him now and tomorrow I would see if I could poke any holes in Alex Hopewell's alibi. So I changed the subject.

"How 'bout we stop at the men's store, Steve," I said. "Get you some suits." He agreed and I swung by my cousin's place. It didn't take Steve long to buy three suits and half-a-dozen shirts and ties. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was expensive, classy stuff. No brown polyester for him. My cousin gave him a nice discount but something told me it didn't matter. The Navy must pay pretty good.

Back at the office he changed into one of his new suits. It seemed to cheer him up a little. I left for awhile to work on another case. When I got back, McGarrett had his nose buried in the Hawaii Code. He looked up when I entered his office.

"Chin," he said, "has Hawaii ever had capital punishment?"

"Until two years ago. Legislature did away with itn fifty-seven."

May poked her head in the door. "Steve, I've got Hank Manatea on the phone. He says its important. Won't talk to anyone but you."

McGarrett snapped the code shut and picked up the phone. "McGarrett," he barked into the mouthpiece. He listened for a moment before saying, "Thanks. We'll be right over."

On the way back to Pupukea Plantation he filled me in. One of Hank Manatea's employees had come to see him privately after lunch. He had seen Hoover's foreman, Kojo Jones, let Hoover take the jeep and leave the field early that morning. He didn't know whether Buddy had left the plantation but he could have.

"Damn, why didn't he speak up when we were there this afternoon?"

"Fear. He has to work with those convicts everyday. Cons don't like stool pigeons."

When we got to Pupukea we climbed into a jeep with Hank Manatea and he took us to the fields where Buddy's team was working. We found Kojo and Steve started putting the screws to him. He folded pretty quickly, admitting that he had let Buddy take the jeep so he could visit his girl friend.

"Why?" Steve demanded. "Why would you let a convicted rapist take the jeep and leave the planation?"

Kojo shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. McGarrett shoved him with his hand and he stepped backwards a few steps to keep from falling down. He wasn't staring at the ground anymore, he was looking at McGarrett, his eyes filled with fear.

"Why?" McGarrett demanded again.

"I owed him nearly two thousand bucks," he said. "We play poker every day at lunchtime, Buddy and me and a couple other guys. Buddy's good."

"He probably cheats," McGarrett said. "So it was worth two grand to Buddy to get to go see his girl friend one time?"

"No," Kojo stammered. "I was supposed to let him go a couple'a times. Then we would be even."

"You're in big trouble, my friend," McGarrett said, "but I'll deal with you later. Don't leave the plantation." He turned and walked the fifteen feet to Kojo's jeep and started searching it. When he opened the glove compartment he found what he was looking for: a hunting knife. He took out his handkerchief and cautiously picked up the knife and studied it closely.

"Look, Chin," he said, pointing to the gun's handle. "Look's like it could be dried blood."

I nodded. It did look like dried blood. Or it could be dried mud. The lab would tell us for sure.

McGarrett walked back to where Hank and the foreman were standing. "Is this knife your's," he asked.

"Yes," Kojo said after taking a deep breath. "I keep it in the jeep because sometimes we need it to cut away vines and undergrowth."

"And I guess you left it in the jeep while Buddy used it."

Kojo didn't need to answer. He just stared at McGarrett, watching his every move. I imagine he was afraid he might hit him. Frankly, I was a little worried about that myself. My new boss seemed to have a short fuse when it came to people who violated the law.

"There are access roads to the main highway throughout the fields," I said. "It would have taken Buddy only a few minutes to get to Sarah Hopewell's neighborhood from that part of the field."

"Where's Buddy Hoover?" McGarrett asked.

"Gone," Kojo said. "I've got my crew out looking for him in the fields."

"Gone?" McGarrett said, his voice starting to lose some of the cool he'd been displaying so far. "What do you mean, 'gone?'"

"After I called you," Manatea said, "I sent a messenger out to have Kojo and Buddy come back to the office. Buddy was gone. No sign of him."

McGarrett wheeled and walked away from the jeep. He was quiet for nearly a minute, then he snapped his fingers and turned back to the group.

"You said Buddy wanted to use the jeep "a couple times," is that correct?" he said to Kojo.

Kojo nodded. "Yeah. He said one trip to his old lady's wasn't worth two grand. He to use the jeep again tomorrow and Friday."

McGarrett nodded, snapping his fingers softly. "He never expected we would trace the murder back to him. Besides, he thought he had an airtight alibi."

I tried real hard to follow him, but Steve was thinking down a path that only he could see. "What you thinking, Steve?" I said finally.

Steve looked straight at me and I could tell he had put it all together in his mind. He knew where Buddy Hoover was. "Doc Manua said Hoover vowed to get even with both Sarah and him. He was planning to go after Doc tomorrow. In the event he was a suspect, he had an alibi he thought no one could break: he was in prison. Then, Friday, he'd take the jeep and disappear. Maybe he's even got a way off the island."

"How could he get off? Cons can't keep cash. He'd have no way to buy his way off the island."

McGarrett was already moving toward Hank Manatea's jeep. "He's got a score to settle first, Chin. We've got to get to the Marina. I'll bet my life on it; he's going after Doc Manua."

Damn. I ran faster to that jeep than I've ever run before.

With the red light on my dashboard flashing, we cut through traffic like a hot knife through butter. It didn't take us long to get to the lagoon, but we didn't know whether we'd be on time. No one knew how long Buddy had been gone; it could have been a couple hours or a couple minutes. And we had no way of knowing whether he'd walk, steal a car, or hitchhike. But we were sure where he was heading. Even I could feel it.

I knew as soon as I pulled into the gravel parking lot at the lagoon that something was wrong. Several other boat owners were standing on the dock looking anxiously toward Doc's boat. One of them ran up to my side of the car and leaned in the window.

"We just heard two gunshots from Doc's boat," he said, breathlessly. "Are you guys cops?"

I didn't answer but signaled him and the others to get back. We approached doc's boat quietly. I drew my gun and wished silently that Steve were armed too. When we reached Doc's boat we listened for sounds. It was eerily quiet at first, then we heard some noises coming from the stern. Steve leaped into the bow and slowly worked his way toward the stern.

Not being as athletic as my new Boss, I climbed aboard with some difficulty and slowly began working my way along the side opposite from Steve. I wasn't sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't what I saw.

Buddy Hoover was prone on the deck, at Doc Manua's feet. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were tied at the ankles. A piece of black electrical tape covered his mouth. Doc had his back toward Steve and me and didn't see us approaching, though, if I knew Doc, he knew we were there.

Buddy was wimpering like the coward I knew he was. He looked up and when he saw me his eyes grew wide, begging me to help him. He started squirming and making gutteral noises behind the electrical tape.

Doc turned. He was holding a revolver, pointed directly at Buddy's head. He saw me and then Steve.

"Chin! Steve!" he said, smiling broadly. "Look what garbage washed ashore."

I wasn't sure what Doc's intentions were, but I decided to assume they were honorable. I holstered my revolver and took a cautious step forward.

"Good job, Doc," I said. "We'll take it from here."

Slowly, Doc turned his revolver from Buddy and pointed it at me. One step was all I was going to take.

"Forget it, bruddah," he said, this time his voice not as friendly. "This piece of garbage came here to kill me. Did you know that?"

Before I could answer, Steve moved forward several steps, coming out into the open.

"We know," Steve said. "Let us handle it now."

"No way, McGarrett," Doc said. He turned to look at Buddy. "This stupid kanaka think Doc a fool. Think he can walk right up here and me not remember him. Tried to pretend he was an old friend of mine." He used his right foot to push Buddy's head to the deck. "What you think, Buddy? Think ole Doc senile?"

Buddy grunted something and wiggled some more, trying to work his hands free from the rope. It was no use. Doc had been tying knots since he was three years old. Buddy Hoover was going nowhere. Steve and I took the opportunity to move another step closer to Doc.

"Put the gun down, Doc," Steve said in what had to be his commander's voice. "Put it down and let us take care of Hoover. We'll forget this ever happened."

Doc laughed the hearty laugh he was so well known for. It almost made the boat rock. "Forget it, McGarrett," he said. It was the cold, hard voice of a cop who had reached the end of his rope. There would be no negotiating here.

"I'm gonna give Buddy what he deserves. How about that Buddy? What do you think you deserve for raping that poor girl twice and then killing her and her daughter? What do you think would be a just punishment?"

Buddy didn't move. Neither did Steve and I. We waited. We had to keep Doc talking until he came to his senses. We couldn't do anything that would make him lose it all together.

"Doc, put the gun down and let us handle it," Steve said again, taking another step closer. Now he was no more than six or seven feet from Doc. If he could get a step or two closer he might be able to jump him while he was distracted. I knew I had to get ready to provide that distraction, so I moved a step closer too.

"This state made one pupule decision the day it did away with the death penalty," Doc said quietly, almost in a whisper. "Scum like you shouldn't be allowed to prey on innocent people," he said to Buddy. McGarrett took a step closer.

Doc pointed his revolver at McGarrett and ordered him to move back. Steve stood his ground.

"I can't let you do this, Doc," he said. "Give me the gun."

"I'll give it to you, Steve," Doc said after a moment. "I'll give it to you after I use it to send Buddy Hoover to hell."

"Doc," Steve pleaded. "If you do that, I'll have to arrest you. You'll spend the rest of your life in prison."

Doc stood perfectly still for what seemed like hours. He turned back to Buddy, pointed the gun at the killer's head, and pulled the trigger.

I've seen people killed before. And I didn't care a lick what happened to Buddy Hoover. But seeing Doc Manua pull that trigger sent me into a state of shock. I don't know how much time passed--it seemed like hours though it couldn't have more than seconds--before anyone moved.

Doc handed McGarrett the gun. McGarrett looked him in the eyes and shook his head.

"You shouldn't have thrown your life away, Doc."

At first Doc didn't react. Then a broad smile crossed his face. He laughed and slapped McGarrett on the back.

"Ain't no jury gonna send me away for this McGarrett. I know all the smart lawyers. And the prosecutors. The worst that will happen to me is a hero's welcome for ridding Hawaii of Buddy Hoover. You come around to see Doc afterwards, like we said. I tell you all about being a cop in paradise."

McGarrett shook his head. He looked at Buddy Hoover's lifeless body and for a moment I was certain I saw pity cross his face. This man was an enigma. He would gladly have seen Buddy Hoover sent to the gas chamber, but he didn't approve of the way Doc Manua had imposed his own death penalty.

"No one should die this way, Doc. Not even Buddy Hoover." He turned toward me and handed me the gun. He paused for a moment and then looked back to Doc. "I won't be coming to see you. I don't want to know anything about being your kind of cop." He looked at me, his eyes cold, empty. "Book him, Chin. Murder One."

* * *

A few hours later we were in McGarrett's office finishing up the paperwork created by Buddy Hoover's murder. I was grateful for one thing: McGarrett hadn't made me take Doc Manua in by myself. He was with me, sharing the wrath of the Honolulu Police Department for arresting one of its living legends. Now he had helped me with the paperwork.

Maybe "helped" wasn't the right word. He had used the opportunity to have me teach him how to do the paperwork. One thing was for sure: this case was a good one for learning the paperwork drill. It involved almost every form the state had ever created for law enforcement purposes. McGarrett was a good student and we were able to get through it pretty quickly.

I watched McGarrett as he worked his way through the pile of forms, signing each one as the arresting officer. When he was finished, he looked up at me, his eyes registering his weariness. He looked at his watch, took a deep breath, and sighed. It was after 10:00 p.m.

"Does it ever get any better, Chin?" he asked.

"I thought today was pretty good."

"I made so many mistakes."

"Mistakes?" What the hell was he talking about? "You solved a murder, arrested another murderer, and put the fear of Five-0 into the gangs. All I had expected my new boss to do today was move into his new apartment."

McGarrett grinned, rather sheepishly I thought, and leaned back in his chair. "It was just beginner's luck, chin. Just beginner's luck."