Mahu Surfer m-2

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “What can we do to help you?”

  “You just have to go on believing in me,” I said, knowing as I said it that I was really asking them to believe a lie. “Just knowing that you’re there and that you love me really helps.”

  My mother got back on the phone. “It was nice to see you yesterday,” she said. “All the way home, all the kids wanted to talk about was how good you surf. They all want to be like you.”

  “Let’s hope they can all stay out of the headlines. I love you guys. I’ll see you soon, all right?”

  My parents told me that they loved me, too, and I hung up. I knew that they would stand by me, no matter what-but when they learned that I had been lying to them, they would not be happy. That, I knew, was a problem I would have to face eventually.

  Moving Up

  I resumed my exploration of the house. I was in a living room that was bigger than my apartment back on Waikiki, with a flat-panel TV with VCR and DVD player. I could finally watch the video tapes Lui had brought me of Mexpipe.

  The living room flowed into an expensively appointed kitchen, with European appliances and stone countertops. A rack of gleaming copper pans that I was sure had never been used hung over an island in the middle of the room.

  There were a few staples in the cabinets, but the refrigerator was empty. At least I’d have a chance to cook, I thought, happy to get away from the lonely restaurant meals I’d been eating since coming to the North Shore. There was a powder room on that level, too, and a curving staircase led up to the second floor.

  Up there, I found two small bedrooms and a nice bathroom, as well as a large master suite, with a king-sized bed and a bathroom with a glassed-in shower stall and a Roman tub. A balcony looked out to the dark ocean.

  I opened the sliding door and stepped out. A necklace of streetlamps outlined the community’s single, curving street. I looked up and down the street, and saw lights in only a couple of the dozen houses, and only a few parked cars. Cane Landing felt like a protective cocoon, one I had spun around me to keep away horny ghosts from my past, inquisitive reporters, crazed murderers and everybody else who wanted a piece of me.

  My stomach grumbled and I realized I had hardly eaten all day. I made a quick trip down to Fujioka’s for chicken breasts, vegetables and rice, and a big chocolate cake for dessert. I figured I deserved that much.

  Back at Cane Landing, I turned on the TV, which had a satellite linkup, and used the Food Channel for background noise while I cooked. One program segued into the next as I ate, then slumped onto the couch. I was startled a little after ten when the house phone rang. I picked it up gingerly, not knowing who could be calling.

  “Kimo, it’s Dario. I’m at the front gate. Let me in.”

  I had no idea what to do. But I’m a detective, right? I can figure things out. I started randomly pressing buttons until I hit nine and heard a buzzing sound. When it ended I hung up and went out to the driveway.

  Dario had packed my suitcase, which sat on his back seat, and my boards were lashed to his roof rack. He climbed up to untie them, then handed them down to me. “Wish I could stay,” he said, “but I’ve got a situation at home.”

  He jumped down, gave me a quick and unexpected kiss on the lips, and then he was backing down the driveway, leaving me on the lawn surrounded by my belongings. I shook my head and started ferrying stuff inside.

  Before I went to sleep, I opened up my laptop, plugged into the phone jack in the bedroom, and dialed up my internet service provider. Hibiscus House hadn’t bothered to install phone jacks in the guest rooms, so I’d had to stop by The Next Wave every time I wanted to get my email. It would be nice to be able to sit up in bed instead.

  I fired off an email to Lieutenant Sampson letting him know I’d be on TV the next morning. I told him I hoped that once the media saw there was no story about Brad and me, that it would free me up to continue my investigation without hindrance. There was a message from Terri, asking me if I’d check on her uncle, Bishop Clark. Her father seemed to think that Bishop was acting stranger than usual.

  I’d met Bishop once, years before, at a party at Terri’s. He was her father’s older brother, and his name came from a maternal connection to the Hawaiian royal family rather than any religious affiliation. I wrote back to Terri and told her I’d check him out as soon as I could.

  Harry had also sent me a message, telling me he was backed up between his course at UH, Arleen and Brandon, and some issues that had come up with one of his patents. He promised to research the bank accounts of the victims, and the mysterious Harry Pincus, as soon as he could.

  Emails finished, I turned to the issue of Ralph Kim. I knew from watching KVOL occasionally that Kim was a bulldog when it came to getting his stories, and specialized in ambushing subjects. I hadn’t been worried when he talked to me on the beach, because I had been able to distract him with the idea of another series he could star in. But it was likely that Kim might have some embarrassing questions for me the next morning, and I wanted to be prepared.

  I knew my brother wouldn’t let me come off as a fool, but I thought if Ralph asked me an embarrassing question and I fumbled around for a while, Lui might just let that on the air, in the name of engaging television. I needed some fumble insurance, and I thought I remembered something about Ralph that would help.

  I went to Google and typed in “Ralph Kim” as a phrase, with “mistress” after it. Sure enough, I came up with a couple of hits, the most promising from a blog written by an ex-staffer at the station. Ralph had married a demure Korean girl after he graduated from college, and they had a son together, but these days he spent most of his time with his mistress, a blonde haole girl he’d met when she was a production assistant at KVOL.

  That piece of information snugly nested in my brain, I stripped down, did my daily check for any new bumps and bruises, and then headed for the shower.

  My dreams were restless and creepy, even though the bed was comfortable. In one, I walked alone down a darkened beach that I knew was Pipeline, knowing somehow that if I could just climb that ridge, I would be able to stop Brad’s murder-but I couldn’t. No amount of effort or willpower could get me over it.

  I woke just before dawn, covered in sweat, and knew I couldn’t go back to sleep. There was too much to do.

  Pipeline wasn’t as crowded as usual. I managed to get a little surfing in before I saw the KVOL truck pull up on Ke Nui Road. I walked up the beach in my wetsuit as the cameraman was getting his B roll, shots of the beach that could play under Ralph’s voice. I hoisted my board back onto the roof rack, uncertain of what I’d do after the interview, then walked over to Ralph, who greeted me warmly, filling me in on how the interview would work. He positioned me so that the spot where the bodies had been found, still roped off with yellow police tape, was visible behind me.

  Ralph listened to his earpiece, then said, “There’s an overturned tanker truck on the H1, so they’re giving the traffic guy an extra minute. After that, they go to a commercial, then they come to us. You okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “After the last few weeks, I’m getting to be a pro at this.”

  “And you’re doing a great job,” he said. Then we stood, a little awkwardly, waiting for the voice in his ear to get us started. All at once, he looked alert, and I took a deep breath as the camera began to run. Ralph began with a rundown on what had happened to me-how I’d been a championship surfer before attending the police academy, and then a decorated officer and detective in Waikiki. All true, though a little exaggerated. He went on to describe how I’d come out of the closet, how the department had responded, and how I’d decided to give up my career, returning to my first love, surfing.

  “But tragedy seemed to follow this dedicated officer, all the way up here to the idyllic North Shore of O‘ahu,” Kim said. “Kimo’s friend and recent romantic interest, Hale’iwa retailer Brad Jacobson, was brutally murdered on this very beach late Sunday night.”

  He turned to me, and
the cameraman moved behind his shoulder, so that I’d be looking at the camera as I looked at Ralph. “Is it true that a stormy breakup with you Sunday evening led Jacobson to this stretch of beach, for a romantic rendezvous with a college surfer he’d met only moments before?”

  “First of all, Ralph, I wouldn’t call what happened between us a ‘stormy breakup.’ Brad and I were friends, and yes, we had a brief, intimate relationship, but we had a disagreement Sunday evening, nothing more than that. As to what led Brad to this beach, I couldn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t know the man he was killed with, Thomas Singer?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all.”

  The cameraman stepped back, getting both of us in the shot, and Ralph said, “Eyewitness accounts indicate that Jacobson met Singer at Sugar’s, a notorious gay bar here in Hale’iwa, and the two retired to the beach for a sexual encounter.”

  To me, Ralph said, “How does it feel to know that if you hadn’t cheated on Brad Jacobson with two of his male friends Saturday night, he might be alive today?”

  It was the ambush I’d been waiting for, but it still hit me hard. My mouth went dry and my pulse raced. Years of police training, however, kicked in, and I said, swallowing carefully, “I don’t know, Ralph. How would it feel if someone killed your wife while you were having sex with your mistress?”

  For a moment, Ralph Kim lost his composure. His eyes lit up, and if looks could kill, I’d have died on that beach just as Brad did. But I saw his professionalism struggling to regain control, and he said, “This isn’t about me, Kimo. It’s about you and your behavior. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “If you have the right to drag my sex life across everybody’s TV screen, Ralph, then I can do the same to you,” I said.

  Ralph turned toward the camera, ignoring me. “Contrary to police reports, however,” he said, “this does not appear to be an isolated encounter. KVOL News has uncovered three other unsolved murders of surfers on the North Shore within the last three months.”

  Then he turned back to me, all professionalism. “Kimo, you’re an experienced homicide detective. Do you think these murders are all related? Should North Shore surfers be on the lookout for a homicidal maniac?”

  “I wasn’t involved in any investigations up here,” I said, “so I really can’t say anything. But I’m sure that the detectives from District 2 are doing everything they can to solve every open homicide on their books, and I have full confidence in their ability and in the ability of the Honolulu Police Department to protect the public.”

  The cameraman backed up, to include a wide shot of the surfers on the beach behind us. Ralph said, “This is Ralph Kim at Banzai Pipeline, with disturbing news about five violent deaths on the North Shore. Is someone shooting surfers? We’ll have more on this story at noon. Back to you in the studio.”

  The camera man gave him a signal, and Ralph disconnected his ear piece. “Nice move, bringing up my girlfriend in a live interview, Kimo. I’ll remember that.”

  “Yeah, and while you’re at it, remember not to drag somebody else’s dirty laundry out in the public unless yours is all clean.”

  He stalked off toward Ke Nui Road, followed by the cameraman, and I headed back to my truck.

  The Shooter

  Just as I reached Ke Nui Road, my cell phone rang. It was Sampson.

  “I saw your interview on KVOL,” he said. “Seemed to go pretty well, until Ralphie tried to sabotage you. You’ve got balls, man, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I met with Singer’s parents yesterday after I left you. They’re both pretty broken up. The father had no clue the boy was gay, but the mother says she wasn’t surprised.”

  I leaned back against my truck. “The mothers always know.”

  “They say there was never any evidence that the boy was into drugs, but the tox screens on the autopsy will tell us. I’ve got some witness interviews I can email you about how Jacobson and Singer met at that bar, Sugar’s. But you heard that from Ralph Kim.”

  “Yup. I’ve also spoken to an eyewitness myself.”

  “Good. What’s your plan for today?”

  “I’m going to hang around the beach for a while, make myself visible, talk to people, and see if anybody has information.”

  “Get back to me before the end of the day, Kimo. This investigation is getting a lot hotter very quickly and I want it resolved.” He hung up, and I stashed the phone in my glove compartment, then looked back at the beach.

  Every time I saw that area of roped-off sand where Brad’s body had been found, it made me want to turn right around and head back to Cane Landing. But I couldn’t; I had a job to do.

  I was pulling my board back off my truck as Mike Pratt’s girlfriend Trish came by. Today her bikini was an electric green, just a couple of swatches of fabric tied together with matching green laces. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “There’s a guy you should know about.”

  “Who?”

  “You heard about the surfers who got shot yesterday?”

  I nodded. “I knew the one guy. Brad.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a guy who’s been shooting at surfers. Somebody has to tell the cops about him.”

  I leaned my board up against my truck. “Who?”

  “Mike found this great break near Kawailoa, and it was like, totally deserted,” she said. “He took me there once and it was really amazing. But I went back one day by myself, and this crazy caretaker guy came running down the beach, yelling at me and waving a shotgun.”

  This sounded familiar, and I struggled to remember where I had heard a story like it. “Hold on,” I said. “This caretaker, did he have a prosthetic leg?”

  “That’s him. His name’s Rich; Mike used to row the outrigger canoe with him. I heard he’s chased other surfers, too. Even shot at them.”

  “You know anybody he shot at?”

  She shook her head. “Just stories I heard. The guy’s a jerk. I mean, I feel sorry for him because he can’t surf any more, but that’s no reason to crack down on people who can.”

  “I heard Mike had a fight with him after he chased you away. He tell you anything about it?”

  She shook her head. “Just that he told the guy, Rich, to lay off me. I remember I told him that was sweet, but I could take care of myself. He said something like, not if somebody’s shooting at you.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she said. “And then somebody shot him!”

  “You think it could have been Rich?”

  “I don’t know, but when I heard more surfers got shot I thought you ought to know about him.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look into him. I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”

  “Actually, I won’t be here,” she said. “The other reason I wanted to see you today was to say goodbye.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Costa Rica. This guy I know runs a little hotel near a great surf beach, and he told me I can stay there if I help with the rooms.” She wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t want to stay here any more. Not after what happened to Mike, and now those other two guys. It’s just not safe any more.”

  “I’m not sure I would go that far.”

  “Get real, Kimo. I mean, you, like, knew that one guy. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

  I thought about it. “It did at first. But I saw a lot of things when I was on the force, and so many times what happens to people is just random. If it’s your time to go, you go, no matter where you are, or what you’re doing.”

  “All due respect, I think that’s bullshit,” she said, pulling off the band around her ponytail and retying it. “I hope nothing bad happens to you, Kimo, and I hope you figure out who’s killing all these people and the North Shore gets safe again.” She stretched up and kissed my cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah, good luck to you too.” I watched her cross the street and jump into the back of a pickup with a couple of other surfers.
There were boards stacked along one side, and a pile of suitcases and plastic trash bags. I thought about surfing, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

  Ironic how when I was chasing cases full time, all I wanted was time to surf; now I just wanted to solve this case. I hung around the beach for a few hours, bringing up the shootings to see what anyone had to say, but the discovery of the bodies the day before had chased a lot of surfers away. I was sure the remaining police tape didn’t help either. Everyone I talked to felt the same way Trish did. They were all leaving the North Shore, because they didn’t feel safe there any more.

  I had tied my board back to the roof rack of my pickup and was just about to leave for The Next Wave and some Internet surfing when a dark blue Ford Taurus pulled up next to me.

  Kawamoto was driving. Ruiz rolled down his window. “Saw you on TV,” he said. “Nice of you to give us a plug.”

  “That’s just the kind of ex-cop I am. Loyal to the force forever.”

  “Why don’t you hop in,” Ruiz said, “and take a ride with us.”

  “All the same to you, I’ll come on my own,” I said. “I’d rather not get stuck in Wahiawa.”

  Ruiz looked at Kawamoto, then back at me. “All right. Be there at three.” Kawamoto floored it down the street, and I was left wondering what it was going to be like being on the other side of a homicide interrogation.

  As I drove toward Hale’iwa, I started thinking about Brad. If I’d gone directly from his apartment to Sugar’s, I might have seen him before he picked up Tommy Singer, and both of them might still be alive.

  Jesus. I hadn’t thought about it that way before. I didn’t chase Brad that night because I didn’t want him to think I was a stalker, and because I felt like I had the right to sleep with whoever I wanted. I hadn’t made a commitment to him, exchanged rings or promised fidelity. We had some fun.

  But what if I had tracked him down? Sure, we would have fought some more. He might have left the bar and gone home, alone, or we might have left together and gone back to his place.