Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

by Hughes, Chip

  I gestured to the racks on my Impala’s teal roof: “Strap your board up there and be quick.”

  Without snarly comment or surly retort, Corky lifted his surfboard onto my racks. I could see blue sky through that silver dollar-sized hole.

  “You drive,” I said, as much as I hated turning over the wheel to anybody, especially this guy. “I’ll make sure we get there.” I held the gun level. Corky climbed into the driver’s seat. I shut the door behind me and glanced over my shoulder. No police escorts yet.

  Corky didn’t say a word during our brief ride. So I decided to break the ice.

  “DiCarlo isn’t the father, according to your wife. The baby is yours.”

  Corky didn’t respond, his green eyes fixed on the road.

  “Look. You and your wife can sort it out. But right now she needs you.”

  “Like I really care.” He kept looking straight ahead.

  A few miles from Kahuku Hospital Corky suddenly glanced at me.

  “So where’s Maya?” he asked.

  When I told him she’d flown back to Maui assuming she would never see him again, Corky just shrugged. I had a feeling he was going to leave it that way.

  “You’re fortunate to be alive,” I said, truly curious about his dumb luck. “Why did Sun let you go?”

  “I told him where the stuff was hidden,” Corky explained.

  “I was just at the mission and the ice was gone.”

  Corky seemed to smile slightly. “I moved it to a locker at the “Y” before Maya and I split O‘ahu.”

  “So why go to all the trouble to bury a bogus map on Shipwreck Beach?”

  “To throw him off. Sun finally realized he could never find the ice without me. So I took him to the Y. He left with the bundle. I left with my life. Not because Sun is generous, but because I convinced him Maya would squeal if anything happened to me.”

  “Did you know Sun was also holding Summer?”

  “No, I didn’t know she was even here.” He took a deep breath and a hint of concern spread across his face. Maybe he did actually care. “I’d heard she hired someone to look for me and Maya, but I had no idea she came to Hawai‘i herself.”

  “I think DiCarlo may have brought her against her will. And now he’s dead.”

  “His blood splattered all over me when they shot him.” Corky shook his head.

  “You know it wasn’t an accident. Sun made an example of DiCarlo. He may have been killed entirely for your benefit.”

  Corky didn’t respond. When we pulled up to the emergency room, I let my Smith & Wesson rest in my lap.

  “Just go in. They’re expecting you.”

  Corky eyed the gun, then released his grip on the wheel and looked out the window. Finally he opened the door and let himself out.

  I watched the reluctant Californian unlash his orange board, cradle it under his arm, then step slowly into the emergency room. He looked back at me only once.

  Twenty-Four

  Back on Maunakea Street I peeked in on the lei girls. No Leimomi. Where was she?

  Upstairs in my office the red light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed Play.

  “Mr. Cooke, this is Meyer Gold, investigator for Acme Life, calling about Charles Corky McDahl, the surfer who died at Waimea Bay last December. Acme has concluded its investigation and is prepared to settle the policy for Mrs. McDahl, who we understand has retained your services. But I’d like to compare notes with you before authorizing the check.”

  Ho! Mr. Gold was in for a surprise.

  I knew who the next message was from even before I heard it.

  “Kai? Are you there? Please pick up the phone. Kai . . . ?“

  I lifted the receiver before her message ended and dialed Leimomi’s number.

  “Kai? Is that you?” She answered on the first ring. “Finally. Where have you been? I’ve called your office five times.” Leimomi’s tone wasn’t angry or depressed or even scolding. She just sounded happy to hear from me.

  “Sorry, Leimomi—really sorry—it was a case, the California surfer who wiped out at Waimea. The case is over now. I’ll be here for you—”

  “Kai, the most amazing thing has happened.” It was her turn to cut me off.

  “What?” I held my breath.

  “Daddy is getting out on parole. He’s coming home to Kaua‘i and I’m going to go there to meet him.”

  “Well . . . that’s great, Leimomi.” I was expecting news of her condition. “Did your father get out early?”

  “Yeah, he’s agreed to testify against the drug supplier who got him in trouble.”

  “I thought your father feared for his life.?”

  “He did, until the supplier got indicted. It just happened and now Daddy’s getting out.”

  “Wait a minute . . . , what’s the drug lord’s name?”

  “Moon or Star or something like that.”

  “Sun? Frank O. Sun?”

  “That’s him.”

  I suddenly recalled my phone message yesterday to Narco-Vice. Could Detective Tong have worked that fast?

  “Kai? Are you still there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, Daddy and Mamma are getting back together. And that leads up to what’s so important I wanted to tell you. Kai, I’m sorry, but . . . but I’m not just going to Kaua‘i to visit, I’m going back for good. I’m moving home. I miss Daddy and Mamma, and I miss Kaua‘i. Honolulu is too big and busy for me—too many people, too much traffic, too much everything.”

  “Well . . . what about the baby? I mean, what do you want to do?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” she said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I must have miscounted, or I was just late, or something.”

  “I thought you said you took the pregnancy test and couldn’t bear it alone?”

  “No, Kai. You didn’t listen. I couldn’t bear to take the test alone. I was afraid of the results. I wanted you with me when I took it . . .”

  I was speechless.

  “We can still see each other, Kai.” Leimomi sounded sympathetic. “You can visit me on Kaua‘i. And I could visit sometimes on O‘ahu.”

  “That would be . . . great,” I said, still stunned.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you. I feel so guilty, leaving you like this. It’s not that I don’t love you. I do. It’s just that I have so much to catch up on with Daddy. I want to be at home for a while.”

  “Don’t feel guilty.” If she only knew how much I meant that. “I understand. Can I help you? Give you a ride to the airport? Maybe we could go out to dinner before you leave?”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  We hung up and I rocked back in my office chair. All that built up emotion. All that reservoir of guilt. All for nothing.

  I thought of the ocean-blue crystal egg I had bought Leimomi in Makawao. It was the day I discovered that Corky was alive, the turning point in the case. I figured the egg would mean more to me than to Leimomi at this point. I dug through my drawers and finally found it, placing it gingerly on my desktop. The turquoise-tinted waves glowed in the sunlight streaming through my office window. A beautiful sight.

  I gazed over at Corky’s candy cane-striped surfboard lying on a rail against my office wall. After getting my butt kicked the other day at Waimea, I doubted I would ever be riding it. Maybe I could give it Summer and Corky as a baby present. Though Corky might not be riding too many more big waves himself. He had become a daddy. And who knows how the drug trial would shake down—whether he would be indicted and, if so, what kind of a plea bargain he might be able to swing.

  I spent the rest of the day in a daze, still reeling from Leimomi’s surprise announcement and feeling slightly abandoned, both by her and, as much as I hated to admit it, by Maya. I knew it was just my ego, since I didn’t really envision a future with either of them. But just the same—those ego beatings can kind of hurt.

  Later I began wondering if my phone message to Detective Tong, t
elling all I knew about the Sun organization, could have had any bearing on his indictment or on the early release of Leimomi’s father. Frankly, I doubted it. The wheels of justice turn slowly.

  No matter, it was provocative to imagine myself helping to turn those huge wheels.

  Twenty-Five

  Monday I took off from work. I counted what was left of Sun’s hundreds. After expenses—airfare, the Lodge, rental cars, and meals—I had cleared nearly three grand.

  It took some talking to settle my accounts on Lana‘i. The Jeep Wrangler I rented had to be retrieved from the Lodge at Koele’s parking lot. Late fee, plus an extra day’s charge. On the other hand, even though I’d failed to check out at the Lodge, the nice folks there were so full of aloha that they credited my account for the second night.

  When I called the surf-line later that day, Waimea had gone down a few feet, but was still pumping. So were Sunset and Pipeline. But the crowds would be out. And I’d been up to the North Shore twice in the last twenty-four hours and didn’t care much to go again. Here in town, Waikiki was breaking two-to-three feet.

  I grabbed my longboard and headed for “Pops.”

  Paddling out through Waikiki’s shore break, my arms still felt tight from the other day at Waimea. But after the first few strokes, the stiffness wore away and I felt fine. Truly fine.

  I waited on my board in the lineup for a good set as the little swells lifted me up and gently set me down again. They resembled ripples on a pond compared to the thundering mountains up on the North Shore. But I’d had enough of big wave riding for one winter.

  About the Author

  Chip Hughes earned a Ph.D. in English at Indiana University and taught American literature, film, writing, and popular fiction at the University of Hawai‘i at Manoa. He left the university in 2008 to write full time. His non-fiction publications include Beyond The Red Pony: A Reader’s Companion to Steinbeck’s Complete Short Stories—also translated into Japanese; John Steinbeck: A Study of the Short Fiction; and numerous essays and reviews.

  An active member of the Private Eye Writers of America, Chip launched the Surfing Detective mystery series in 2004 with Murder on Moloka‘i. The second book, Wipeout!, followed in 2007. Other titles, in various stages of development, include Kula, Murder at Volcano House, Barking Sands, and the Maui Masseuse. The series has been optioned for television and is currently in development. More at http://surfingdetective.com.

  Chip lives in Windward O‘ahu with his wife, Charlene, and two retrievers. He surfs when time allows.