“Any friends you shared, that she might still be in touch with?”
“Don’t really know, off hand. Just the theater crowd. You know, all those wanna-be actors. And there’s a guy. He might still be her boyfriend. Heard he’s a lifeguard. His name starts with an M. Mick? Morris?”
“Matthew.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right … and there’s one other chick.”
“Asian?”
“No, no, no. A blonde. With quite a rack. Natural too. Damn. What’s the chick’s name?”
Felt like I was talking to Old McDonald, with a chick chick here and a chick chick there. Everywhere a chick chick….
Karl had gone quiet, probably pondering the blonde’s rack.
I was ready to hang up, so I said, “If you remember her name, give me a call.” I gave him my number.
Then he said, “I’ll tell you one thing about Kay—not that this’ll help you find her, but—”
“Go ahead.” Give me something, anything.
“There was something about Kay that used to chill me. Sometimes we’d be having sex and she’d like, she’d be in another place. It was quite disconcerting. It wasn’t like that all the time, of course, but it happened often enough. Well, I’m married now, got a kid and one more on the way, but I can still see that, uh, … for the lack of a better word, disengagement. Wow. And now she’s missing?”
“Uh-huh.” I had been caught in one of those impasses where I wanted yet didn’t want the visual. How does one reconstruct such a moment, not having been there? I gave him one more question, on the off chance that I could elicit the slightest bit of information I could use.
“Why’d you break up?”
“You know how it goes. We were young. We went to different schools. I was in Oregon, attending law school, and she was in L.A. We tried to maintain a long-distance relationship, but we both ended up getting involved—with other people. Funny, I think she started seeing another law student.”
“Got a name?”
“Sorry. I don’t…. Oh, she was quite a catch. Took me a while to get over her. But we were young. You know, I saw her on TV not too long ago, one of those morning sunrise shows. She was promoting some film. You know, it might have been the Hawai‘i Film Festival, or whatever they call it. Damn, she’s even better looking now.” He sighed. “But hey, what can I say? I’ve done well. As they say, non je ne regrette rien.”
I thanked Mr. Edith Piaf and clicked the phone shut as I hopped from boat to pier, deciding that some face-to-face conversations might yield better leads. I made a few more calls, got a couple of addresses, knocked on a few doors, and by early evening I had tracked down two more acquaintances. Both led to a big fat zero. I was getting nowhere.
Later in the evening, I phoned Mia, now that I had her current phone number. She had given up her landline months ago. I gave her a brief accounting of my day. She was pretty blunt about what she termed useless leads, noting that a guy like Mr. Lemon would know absolutely nothing about Kay. She promised to bring me some better avenues to explore. I was anxious to get to those leads but she said it was stuff that she was reluctant to send me electronically; she wanted to give me the documents in person. She said she had another busy workday ahead, but getting those documents to me was of utmost importance so she promised to meet with me late tomorrow afternoon.
I called a friend who worked for Hawaiian Air, someone who could access the airline’s flight manifests. While she was not supposed to share information about a flight without a court order, she told me if I gave her the name, or names, the approximate flight day, and destination, she could tell me whether that person or persons had boarded the plane or not. She checked and verified that Caroline Ku‘ulei Johnson and Matthew Kaliko Serrano did leave on a May 3rd flight to Las Vegas. After some serious searching, she was able to tell me that they had not returned. At least not via that airline. I made a few discreet and indirect searches and was able to verify that although they had purchased round trip fares, they had not used their return tickets.
I utilized some of my old contacts to gain access to accident reports, information about people being brought to hospitals, police arrest reports, every angle I could think of. Still nothing. I needed Mia’s “stuff.” I needed to know which computers Kay and Matt used and where they used them and whether they carried a laptop with them and whether they left any trace of other flight/travel arrangements. According to her cell phone records, Kay had last used her phone on May 7th. That call had come from somewhere between Kingman and Phoenix—near I-93. Was that her call to Mia?
Taking a breath after a long day I leaned against the rail and gazed not oceanward, but toward the million lights that lit up the Waikiki skyline, from the Hilton all the way down to the Natatorium and the Gold Coast beyond. You couldn’t see Diamond Head from this vantage point, but you knew it was there. You could feel it.
I grabbed a can of Miller Light from the mini-fridge then sat slumped on the deck chair. Facing the ocean I contemplated possible angles in my case. My mind kept running, exploring every possible scenario: the boyfriend-did-it, she’s-in-hiding, they’re-on-a-luxury-cruise-and-couldn’t-make-phone-contact-until-they-docked-somewhere … and on and on….
At 3 a.m. I found myself stiff and cold on the deck chair. The can of beer had been placed solidly on the deck floor. An army blanket covered my shoulders. Someone—I had no idea who—had placed it there. I removed the blanket, with its freshly laundered scent, got up, shook off the stiffness, and tied the blanket to the lower end of the mast. I grabbed the empty beer can and found my way into the cabin, doused the contact lenses that were glued to my irises with some Blink & Clean, removed them, brushed my teeth, and passed out on my bed, that narrow berth I usually slept in.
9
(Day 3—Wednesday, May 23) I was up again in a few hours, ready to go. After a quick breakfast of blueberry yogurt and an orange I clambered up to the deck. The blanket was no longer there. I left the boat, got in my car, and headed toward Ala Wai Boulevard. Having had a small bit of luck with my search for Kay by traipsing along the shore at Lanikai—thanks to a bodysurfing kid—I decided to try my luck at the adjacent and significantly larger stretch known as Kailua Beach.
By the time I arrived at the beach the place was parked out, the hordes seeking relief from oppressive air. Where are the fucking trades? I managed to squeeze my Corolla into a tight space, tight since whoever parked the Chevy truck right next thought it inconvenient to try to fit within the white lines. I could barely open my door and squeeze myself out.
Barefoot, carrying bottled water, I worked the beach as best I could. The “Do you know this girl?” routine seemed highly inefficient, but I kept telling myself that the next person may have some vital information. I invested in this strategy for a good ninety minutes, then decided to focus on the lifeguards. I went from stand to stand, talking it up with each lifeguard about the weather, the water conditions, and if they happened to know a fellow lifeguard named Matthew Serrano, and/or—at this point I busted out the photo—this girl. They were friendly enough. A couple of them knew Matthew, but only superficially, since they usually worked different days. One said he had had drinks with Matthew a couple of times, over at Buzz’s. Had met Kay there too, said she was “quite a babe,” but had seen neither Kay nor Matt for close to a month. This guy, who went by Kent, told me about a couple of daring rescues Matthew had been involved in, including one behind Flat Island, that leveled-off atoll about five hundred meters offshore. Matthew had dived off his idling Jet Ski to help this guy who was having a panic attack during a swim race. What I learned from all these conversations was that Matthew, a well-regarded lifeguard, traveled a lot and hadn’t been seen lately.
I stopped for a hot dog and Pepsi at the concession, refilled the water bottle at the drinking fountain, then went back at it, trying to cover not only more sandy turf, but also retracing the places I had covered, since there had already been some turnover in beachgoers, with new ones
arriving and others leaving.
It didn’t take me long to admit that I needed a better strategy. I didn’t even have a photo of Matt.
Back in the Corolla, after resisting the temptation to put a dent in the big Chevy as I squeezed in, I headed up the coast, along Kaneohe Bay, toward He‘eia.
I parked in the lot of the small boat harbor, figuring I should try to get a closer look at Matthew’s boat—board it if no one was watching.
The boat wasn’t there.
I ran over to the harbor office. There I found the old harbormaster, asleep in a chair. I gave him a minute to see if he stirred, then made a bit of noise. His eyes slowly opened. “You’re the fella asking about the Serrano boat. Sorry, Sherlock, can’t let you on without a warrant.”
Dumb fuck. “The boat’s not here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He stood up, slowly. Then stretched. “People do take their boats out sometimes. Kinda what they’re for. Wouldn’t be surprised if that Serrano kid took it to the sandbar, where they all party.”
“Any chance someone else might’ve taken it?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“But you didn’t see anything.”
“Uh-uh.”
Shit, compared to this guy, Kurt Lemon and Mr. Snappy went out of their way to be helpful. I walked away in disgust, muttering thanks for shit, got in my car, and turned right onto Kamehameha Highway. I headed for the North Shore.
Jack-of-all-tirades
The Serrano family lived on the North Shore. You’d think that I would know them, having grown up there. But people are so spread out there’s maybe a hundred little enclaves. What was great about it was that each of these little communities was like a family. Kids spilling into each other’s houses, grown-ups sitting outside at the mandatory green pine wood picnic table, chasing down fresh crab and opihi with beer, talking story way beyond sunset, as if there were no such things as TV or video games.
The Serranos lived at Pupukea, up in the mountain community that overlooked the best surf spots in the world: Sunset, Velzyland, and the Banzai Pipeline. The late Maurice “Sully” Sullivan, founder of the Foodland supermarket chain, had been Pupukea’s most famous resident, though a malihini like Paul Theroux might argue other wise in a book-length essay. Growing up on the streets below, us kids used to see Sully’s landscape crew always at work, maintaining his lavish gardens, pretty much all we could see of the vast property. At one point Mr. Sullivan wanted to have a monorail built, leading from the streets below to his estate. Our community would have none of that.
Sully’s domain consisted of a six-bedroom, five-and-a-half-bath house, and almost two dozen garages to house his antique car collection. When you juxtapose the reality of an ever-increasing homeless population with this example of conspicuous consumption, it’s a little disheartening, though Sully was known to be a generous man with a kind face. When he died his property was converted into a five-star B&B.
The Serrano house was basically old, though some parts had been remodeled, and it was huge. Connie Serrano, Matthew’s dark-haired, dark-eyed, youthful-looking mother, met me on the walkway and led me to a sliding door that opened up to a wonder of a living room. Rattan chairs and three sets of couches, lots of windows and open air, all overlooking the ocean. Flowering and leafy plants seemed to grow out of the walls, blending into those that were painted on the walls, creating a trompe-l’œil effect.
“Who’s the artist?”
“Matthew.”
“He’s good. Thought he was a lifeguard.”
“That was last week. He was into stage design for a couple of years, then he goes to law school to study copyright law, triggered by his romance with songwriting.”
When she saw the puzzled look on my face she added, “He wanted to protect songwriters. You know, the ones that don’t get credit for their creation.”
So he’s the law student that Karl Lemon had referred to. He’s the law student AND the lifeguard.
“Then,” she continued, “then he throws that all away to start surfing seriously again. He won some junior surf titles way back when….” She paused, then added, “Painting’s just his latest obsession.”
“A victim of many talents,” I said, immediately regretting using the word victim.
“‘Jack-of-all-tirades,’ his dad used to say. That’s our baby boy.”
“His dad?”
“My ex. Don’t ask.”
“I won’t. Why ‘tirades’?”
“He used to throw tantrums when he didn’t get his way. That’s when he was five. He’s the opposite now, the coolest head in the room.”
“Matthew works as a lifeguard?”
“Yes, that’s the one constant. He’s been doing that on and off for years. Instead of taking the bar exam after all that law school work, he gets some funny notion that there’s nothing better than saving people from drowning.”
“That strikes me as … commendable.”
“Sit down,” she said pleasantly, ignoring my comment. I aimed for the nearest couch. “Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Juice?”
“Some water would be great.” It had been a long drive.
“Or lemonade iced tea. I got that too.”
“That sounds even better. I’ll have to go with that.”
She headed toward the kitchen/dining room area while I took in the view and surroundings.
She returned with two glasses and set them on the coffee table under some leather coasters with petroglyph designs carved into them. My guess was that was another Matthew creation. She began talking, saying initially that she had hardly seen Matthew these last few months, since he was either spending most of his time on the Windward Coast or traveling. “He does call now and then,” she concluded.
“In fact,” she quickly added, “he called me on Mother’s Day. He never forgets. Said he was calling from Arizona. Said he and Kay had driven there after their Vegas trip. Said they’d be returning to Hawai‘i soon. That was, what, two weeks ago? I don’t know what he means by soon.”
That reminded me of the jesus coming soon sign on that church I used to always pass way back in my childhood. For a couple of decades I’d see that sign, wondering, like Mrs. Serrano, what soon meant.
“Were they on a film set, by any chance?”
A kid ran by, being chased by another. “Hey. Watch out,” she said to them. “I don’t want to be rushing you to the hospital again, Keanu.” She looked at me. “My grandchildren.”
“I can’t believe you’re a grandmother.”
“Tell me about it. Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Did Matthew mention anything about being on a film set?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about a film set.” She looked away, muttering, “Now, as far as what they were doing in Arizona.” She looked up at me. “I don’t know. It may have had to do with their film. Maybe a film festival. No, wait. That was Utah someplace, wherever they have that film festival that Robert Redford’s involved with.”
“Sundance.”
She shook her head. “I’m losing my mind…. Yes, Sundance.”
“What about Matthew’s siblings? He in touch with any of them?”
“I don’t think so. You see, Matthew’s the youngest. His brothers are a lot older, so he’s not too close to them. And one of them’s doing time.”
Did she just say doing time?
“For the life of me I don’t know why Donny was hanging out with those scoundrels.”
“Which scoundrels?” Probably guys I knew.
“Oh, you know, the local surf crowd. Most are OK, but some of them, my god, they’re just thugs. It’s drugs, you know. They were all on ice—you know, crystal meth—and they stole some boards from Yuri Martin’s shop. You know Yuri Martin?”
“Yeah, the famous surfboard designer.”
“Problem was, those were priceless boards—so, grand larceny. Donny did rehab and I really hope he’s done with the stuff. He’s got six more months.”
“Then there’s Janice, Matt’s sister. She has a bit of a coke problem. Lives in Santa Monica. She didn’t call on Mother’s Day.”
“Whose kids are these?” I was indicating the two brats who had zoomed by and now were bounding around the rattan chairs.
“The devil’s.” She sighed, catching herself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying that about these … these lovely brats. They’re John’s. He’s my oldest. Lives down the street. He’s not on drugs. Just going through a painful divorce.”
I was all too familiar with that tiresome phrase. Maybe she was too. “You seem to have your hands full.”
“Tell me about it. Well, my children are all adults and have to live by their decisions. It’s the grandchildren I worry about more. They keep me going.”
“So Matthew called you just over a week ago then.”
“Yes.”
“And everything seemed fine.”
“He’s the only one not giving me grief.” She paused, seeing the look in my eye. “Till now. You’re saying he and Kay are missing?”
“Well, Kay is missing.”
“But they must be together.”
“What time did he call?”
She thought a minute, then said, “Early afternoon. Like around one or two.”
“That really helps. Did he happen to say where in Arizona he was calling from?” Kay’s call had come from just north of Phoenix. And it happened earlier. If I could find out exactly where Matt was calling from I could get a fix on which direction they were headed.
Connie strained to remember. “I … don’t … know. He might have been in a car. He’d be clear for a bit, then his voice would start to break up. We lost the connection and then he called again. We didn’t talk very long.”
Almost on cue, her phone rang. One of the kids beat her to it, saying “Serrano residence” into the mouthpiece before handing it to her. After saying hello, she paused, cupped the mouthpiece, whispering It’s Janice; I have to take this. Then she said, “Hold on, Janice,” and took a key out of her pants pocket, handed it to me, saying Go through the back door. The deck leads right to their room. I nodded. Don’t take anything without checking with me first. I nodded again.
For a Song Page 7