by Hughes, Chip
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Grossvendt, please.”
“One moment, sir.” The receptionist connected me, not to Mr. Grossvendt himself, but to a woman I assumed was his assistant or paralegal. She told me that the attorney was unavailable, but asked if I would like to leave a message. When I said I was a P.I. inquiring about Mr. Grossvendt’s BMW convertible, the woman abruptly stopped me in mid-sentence. “Hold, please.”
Within seconds attorney William J. Grossvendt himself came on the line.
“Mr. Cooke,” said a high, quavering voice, “you have information about my car?”
“Actually, I was going to ask you for some information.”
“Have you found it?” The attorney asked excitedly. “Have you found it?” He repeated himself rapidly and entreatingly like a boy who had lost his favorite toy.
“Found what?”
“My BMW convertible!” He said impatiently.
“Is it missing?” I asked naively, hoping for more information.
“Why, it was stolen from my parking garage in early January, not two days after I bought it. It’s been missing nearly a month. My assistant said you are a P.I.?” He sounded hopeful.
“Yes. Does HPD have any leads?”
“None,” the attorney said. “And it was a professional job. That car had all the high tech anti-theft devices money can buy.”
“Sounds like this theft was more about that particular car than about you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” His voice cracked. “I’ve had cars vandalized before—keyed, you know—and have received my share of threats, even death threats. Sometimes heirs cut from Grandma’s will blame me, the attorney. They think I’ve taken their money. When my BMW was stolen, I had in mind a few people who might be responsible.”
“I suppose there’s a chance of that.”
“So what’s in this for you, Mr. Cooke?” the attorney asked in his anxious voice.
“I’m pursuing an entirely different case, but I think your car may somehow be related to it. The death of a California surfer at Waimea Bay last Christmas Eve.”
“I heard about that. He died on a huge wave, right?”
“Right. And he was driving a BMW around on the North Shore before his wipeout. The car has been missing since his death—maybe the same car you bought.”
“I really loved that car. And I’d love to have it back.”
“Why don’t you take the insurance money and buy another? I bet the dealership could get one just like it.”
“I’m sentimental about that very car. My girlfriend helped me pick it out,” he hit a somber note. “And she’s since left the islands.”
“I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
“Much appreciated.”
“By the way,” I said, “do you know my attorney friend, Tommy Woo?”
“Tommy? Yeah, I know him. But he’s a sore subject around here.”
“Why?” I asked.
The attorney cleared his throat. “One evening my former wife and I were at a party at O‘ahu Country Club—a very elegant white-tie affair—and Tommy was playing piano. On his break Tommy comes over to where we’re sipping Dom Pérignon with a CEO friend, of a Big Five company, you know, and Tommy says, “Hey, Bill, did you hear the one about the Siamese twins hookers who offered a ‘double-your-pleasure’ guarantee . . . ?”
“Siamese twins hookers?” I recalled one of Tommy’s crudest jokes.
“Yeah, the punch line made the CEO turned blue, I tell you. And my former wife, well, she looked as if she’d been bitten by a snake. That Tommy Woo, he’s a prize all right.”
I had to laugh. “I’ll let you know if I find your car.”
When the trust attorney hung up I wondered what Tommy Woo would say about stuffy Grossvendt, his blue-blood ex-wife, and the Big Five CEO. I pictured Tommy adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses with a flourish, puffing cherry blend in his meerschaum pipe, and uttering profoundly: “If they can’t take a joke, f– ‘em.”
This mysterious car business wasn’t making much sense. The convertible was registered in California, turned up in Hawai‘i and was purchased below wholesale by a Honolulu dealership, then sold to a Bishop Street attorney, then stolen from him two days later. Could it be linked to Corky McDahl?
I phoned information for Balboa, California, and got the number for Damon DiCarlo, the registered owner. DiCarlo’s address was on East Ocean Front. From what I remembered about real estate in this pricey area of Orange County, Ocean Front was an exclusive seaside lane on the Newport peninsula. It adjoined the Balboa Channel and the famous body board spot called “The Wedge,” a powerful, treacherous shore break that can hammer the unwary. Wicked huge swells pump up against a rock jetty, then slam the steep beach, spraying sand and foam every which way. It is one easy spot to break your neck.
I placed the call to DiCarlo. After four rings a melodic, Brando-like voice said: “Damon here. You know the routine. Leave a message and I’ll call . . .”
I left my name and number, mentioning the BMW he sold. I wondered if this Damon would bother to phone back a complete stranger in Hawai‘i.
Then I checked the local directory and called all the surf shops Alika and I had visited in Hale‘iwa. Still no sign of Corky’s board. The candy cane had seemingly vanished. I wondered if the Sunset Beach woman who first found the board had kept it, and if so, why? By all accounts, it had been badly damaged. Were she and Corky’s alleged red-haired girlfriend one and the same? I wasn’t even sure if this elusive redhead existed.
Gradually I began to picture Summer’s marriage to the California surfer as less than ideal. The young couple certainly remained apart for long stretches. But could they really be scamming the insurance company? I had a deep sense that Summer was not type to do such a thing. She was nervous, yes, and anxious. And she was evasive about certain details. Yet an underlying naive sincerity in her character seemed at odds with the idea of fraud. But I had to factor in the dark-suited men who “escorted” her in that hearse of a Mercedes. And that brought up questions.
They weren’t simple questions like “Did Corky really die?” or “Did Corky skip out on his wife and new baby?” These were more complex questions buried beneath the one she and the insurance agent were asking. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure what they were.
It was time to fit in a quick session in Waikiki. I hopped into my Impala and headed for Classic Surfboards on Kapahulu Avenue to get some wax.
Classic Surfboards is a groovy, sixties-style surf shop lined with more used boards than new, and hardly any glitzy logo apparel. The shop’s motto warms my heart: “No Gimmicks, No Bullshit, Just Surfing.” A short walk from Waikiki Beach, Classic Surfboards attracts local surfers and tourists alike. Since it can be cheaper to buy a board there than to rent one day after day at the beach, some boards for sale are dinged old tankers; but you can also find some nice ones at good prices. Surf’ ‘n Jenny, the sandy-haired proprietor and mother of two, always tells sellers: “Ask the very lowest price you will accept and your board will sell fast.” I sold a ten foot T & C there in one day.
Inside the shoebox-shaped shop I made a beeline for the glass counter piled high with cylinders of pastel-colored surfboard wax. My favorite is coconut-scented “Sex Wax.” Expressly for warm water, this milky-white wax has an ambrosial island fragrance that never fails to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I selected one disk of wax the size of a hockey puck and set it on the counter.
“Hi, Kai!” Jenny greeted me with a big grin. “Heading up to the North Shore?”
“Nah, I was just there yesterday at Waimea. Nearly killed myself on a thirty-footer.” I exaggerated. “Today I’m heading out to Pops.”
“Kai, for Waimea you need a gun.” She looked concerned. “That nine-six nose rider of yours isn’t built for big waves.”
“I know, I borrowed a gun from my cousin Alika. It was OK. Didn’t suit me exactly, but close enough.”
“I took in a big gun nearly a m
onth ago. It’s got an amateur patch job, but it would have sold instantly if she hadn’t put such a high price on it,” Jenny explained. “She wants $350.”
“A woman is selling a big gun? Not many women surf Waimea.”
“She said she’s selling it for a friend who left the island,” Jenny replied. “I’m surprised she didn’t put it in a shop in Hale‘iwa, ‘cuz the address she gave is on the North Shore. The board, though, was made in California.”
“Wait a minute. Can I see this board?”
“It’s over there between those two tankers.” Jenny pointed to a wall lined with boards standing in file on their tails. There it was—red and white stripes like a candy cane, its narrow pointed nose rising nearly a foot above the longboards next to it.
Jenny gingerly plucked it out like a stick of gum from a pack. California surfboard label. No leash. And those telltale stripes.
“I want to buy this board.” I tried to mask my rush of emotion. “How much does she want for it again?”
Jenny drew a card from a small file box behind the counter and glanced at it. “Too much, Kai. You’re a good customer. How about I cut my commission and drop the price to $300.”
“Did it come in with a leash?”
“You don’t want that leash. It was sliced right in two—I only got the part still hooked to the board.”
“Sliced or snapped? I think a surfer wiped out on this board at Waimea—the leash could have snapped or been shredded by coral.”
“No, this one looks sliced like bologna.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I threw it in the scrap bin in back. But that was weeks ago—and I’m not the only one who goes back there.”
“I’ll pay three hundred if you can find me that leash and give me the woman’s name and address.”
“Sorry, Kai, I can’t give out her personal information. I promise all my customers confidentiality.”
“No problem,” I replied. I didn’t want to offend her or push my luck. To avoid trading in stolen boards, Jenny was a stickler for gathering and protecting detailed information on her clients.
She set the card on the counter and covered it with the wax I had put there. Then she stepped into the back room.
I glanced at the card. The seller’s address and other vital information were concealed under the wax. I wasn’t about to move it. But on the edges of the card not covered by the wax, I could just make out a first name, “Maya,” and the last four digits of a phone number. That was enough. I knew already the North Shore prefix. So I had myself a complete number. Bingo!
Jenny returned with a four-foot section of leash. I carefully studied the severed end. When a surfboard leash snaps in the heat of a wipeout, the broken surface looks irregular and jagged—with tiny peaks and valleys and burrs. But this leash appeared to have been sliced clean, as if with a knife. A few fine, curved parallel lines over the otherwise flat surface suggested the sawing movement of a sharp blade.
“Thanks for the cord,” I said. “It may come in handy.”
“A broken leash? Handy?”
I peeled off three of Summer’s rumpled Ben Franklin’s.
Jenny eyed the bills. “I love cash.”
“That makes two of us.”
With sliced leash and badly-patched candy cane in hand, I stepped from the surf shop beaming.
Nine
Nearly eleven feet of surfboard proved too much even for my spacious Chevy. Luckily, I always carry along a pair of soft roof racks. Within minutes I had positioned the racks on the wide teal roof, tightened the nylon straps inside the cabin, and lashed the candy-striped red board securely in place.
Back on Maunakea Street I maneuvered the lengthy gun between the cashier’s counter and refrigerated display cases at Fujiyama’s, and up the orange shag stairs. I got a few looks from Mrs. Fujiyama and her lei girls. Leimomi actually frowned. Did she think this telltale board proved her boyfriend had taken up big wave riding? Considering Leimomi’s “condition,” that probably made me as irresponsible to her as Corky McDahl had been. The parallel made me wince.
Inside my office I set Corky’s board on a rail along my longest wall and checked out the repair job. Amateur, as Surf’n’ Jenny had said. The patched board looked dappled like a roan pony, its dings unpainted, wavy, and irregular. I couldn’t believe the seller had put such a high price on a wreck like this.
Before examining it further, I noticed the familiar blinking light of my answering machine and checked my messages.
“Mr. Cooke,” said a singsong female voice, “this is Mr. DiCarlo’s secretary returning your call from his office in Costa Mesa, California. Mr. DiCarlo is out of town, but he would appreciate any information you could provide him about his stolen car . . .”
Mr. DiCarlo’s stolen car? Was this a twice-stolen car—heisted from both DiCarlo and Grossvendt? And if the former hadn’t turned it in to the BMW dealership, who had?
Quickly I returned the secretary’s call.
“DiCarlo Inc.,” answered the same voice that had left the message.
I told her who I was and she became helpful.
“You’ve found Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
“Not exactly. I’ve found that it has been stolen—again. Not from Mr. DiCarlo, but from the car’s new owner here in Hawai‘i.”
“In Hawai‘i?” The singsong voice hit a high note.
“That’s right. Did Mr. DiCarlo ship his car to Honolulu?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, this is a bit of a coincidence—Mr. DiCarlo is vacationing in Hawai‘i.”
“That is a coincidence. Are you in touch with him?”
“I can be.”
“Would you give me his number or ask him to call me?”
“I’ll ask him to call you.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling like we were finally getting somewhere. “One last question. Does the name Corky McDahl sound at all familiar?”
“Corky?” She paused. “Isn’t he the fellow who washes Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
Bingo. “He apparently had an auto detailing business in Newport Beach.“
“Then that’s him, yes, Corky cleaned Mr. DiCarlo’s car.”
“The BMW convertible—maroon with cream leather?”
“Yes.”
“Could Corky have taken that convertible to Hawai‘i?”
“Why would he do that? Why would Mr. DiCarlo allow him to?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure you can’t give me Mr. DiCarlo’s phone number in Hawai‘i?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Cooke. You sound very honest and sincere, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I will call him with your number right away.”
“What kind of business is he in?”
“Import-export.”
“What sort of products?”
“The products change depending on what’s available.”
“Did his business take him to Hawai‘i?”
“Mr. DiCarlo travels extensively on business,” she said, “mostly to Mexico and South America. He speaks fluent Spanish.”
“That so? I’d really appreciate hearing from Mr. DiCarlo.”
“You will,I’m sure.”
I then phoned the number Summer had given me and got that heavy accent again. “Leave message at tone, if you please . . .”
I asked Summer to call me, mentioning vaguely that I had made some progress.
Next I placed a call to the North Shore number of “Maya.” A young woman answered.
“Maya?” I asked.
“No,” she corrected me. “Maya doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Where’s here?”
“Who’s calling, please?” She sounded agitated.
“Kai. I was a surfing buddy of Corky McDahl.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Where might I find Maya now?”
Click.
No worries. I pulled out my handy direct
ory that lists the addresses of all people on O’ahu by phone number, turned to the prefix “638,” then scanned down until I found the last four digits of the number I’d just called. It belonged to an address off Kamehameha Highway called Ke Nui Road that fronts the ocean.
Ke Nui is a road of big wave riders. It looks out on the famous breaks of the North Shore—Sunset, Pipeline, and nearby Pupukea. Down the road a hop, skip, and jump is Waimea Bay. Ke Nui is near the center, in other words, of the surfing universe. Legends have called this street home—along with some young hopefuls. It didn’t surprise me that Corky, by way of this woman named Maya, was associated with Ke Nui Road.
In less than an hour, with Corky’s board lashed on top, my Impala rolled into the sandy lot overlooking blown-out Sunset Beach. The wind-whipped sea was the color of marbled jade—dark green riddled with stark white. Signs posted on the beach warned: “High Surf . . . Dangerous Currents . . . No Swimming . . . Beach Closed.” Above these signs, Day-Glo orange flags stood stiff in the wind.
Nobody—swimmer, boogie boarder, or surfer—was out today. Not just because of the signs, but because even the regular crew at Sunset knows when to battle and when to retreat. The roar of the tumultuous waves resembled the H-1 Freeway at rush hour—amplified tenfold. It was a din that filled the air completely.
From Sunset Beach, I drove a short quarter mile to oceanfront Ke Nui Road, where the surf continued to roar. Maya’s address was attached to a cottage with shake roof whose beach side stood on stilts in the sand at the high tide mark. You couldn’t get much closer to the water than this without swimming.
I knocked and soon a wet-haired surfer girl stood before me in a string bikini top and skin-tight jeans. Her baby-white skin and pale blue eyes had “mainland” written all over them. She appeared to be about Leimomi’s age.
“Is Maya here?” I whiffed the fresh scent of lavender on her.
“No,” she said in a voice lower pitched than the young woman I had spoken with on the phone, but no less defiant.
“I’m a friend of Corky McDahl. I wondered if Maya could tell me anything about his wipeout—just to soothe my mind. I still have his photo.” I showed her the snapshot Summer had given me.