by Chip Hughes
* * *
You’d think someone in my line of work might have taken more notice of such news. But then my business had always run more to the two-footed variety. Until now.
“Look at this.” Maile turned the page to a notice in the “Pets for Sale” classifieds:
ATTN VETS & TECHNICIANS
Stolen from Pet’s Haven on Beretania Street, Female King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. Microchip #500E239193. Reward for info. leading to arrest & conviction.
“Pet theft from a pet store? And a dog with an ID chip? That’s bold.”
“After being in law enforcement for fifteen years, Kai, I can tell you that some of the most twisted individuals I’ve run into are those who steal and mistreat animals. They’re a sick bunch.”
She turned another page.
DAD-GUM DOGNAPPERS!
Some people consider dogs fair game, just like mangoes in the yard. There’s money to be made on stolen purebreds in the islands . . .
Page after page of clippings made a fairly convincing case for organized pet theft. Maile told me her role as a pet detective wasn’t always an easy one. She had been cursed at, threatened, spit on, and even assaulted in her mission to rescue stolen animals. Once Maile had jumped from a window into a client’s waiting pickup truck, clutching a Chihuahua after subduing the ex-husband with pepper spray. She had always had a tough side, even as a kid. But I hoped rescuing Kula wouldn’t prove to be quite so dramatic.
Maile offered me some tips that would help whether he was lost or stolen: visit animal shelters, stake out and post signs where he was last seen, put ads in local newspapers, offer a substantial reward—the list went on. Before long I felt deeply in her debt.
“How can I ever thank you?” I asked.
“Could you drive me to the airport tonight? My ride fell through.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“And,” Maile paused, “how would you feel about feeding Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo while I’m gone? Mrs. Kaneshiro, my next-door neighbor, usually does it, but she just got called to Kaua‘i to care for her sick sister. I was about to make some last-minute calls, but since you stopped by today and since we’re old friends with a shared passion for animals . . .”
“Well . . .” Whatever had I said or done to make her think I was an animal lover?
Maile saw the doubt on my face. “I wouldn’t normally ask anyone on such short notice, but I know I can trust you, Kai. I’ve always felt comfortable with you. And I’m sure my cats will too. So what do you say?”
I was flattered, but her little speech made me feel completely surrounded. There was really no way out. So I said, “Your three kitties and I should get along just fine.”
“This is so nice of you!” She hugged me.
Her sweet, loamy fragrance made me almost glad I’d agreed and reminded me of that summer long ago when I had yearned for her.
“I’ll show you how to feed and water them tonight before we go to the airport.” Maile released me. “And I’ll give you my cell number in case you have questions.”
“Happy to help.”
My agency on the brink, my only paying gig searching for a lost dog, and now I had become the reluctant butler to three pampered cats. How low I’d sunk!
ten
Early Wednesday morning before dawn I staked out Kailua Beach. Maile had suggested I start at five. Lost and frightened animals, she explained, sometimes return early in the morning to the place where they last saw their master. I sat in my Impala sipping Kona coffee and scanning the shore.
The two-mile crescent of Kailua Beach—a white ribbon dotted with palms—was barely visible in the grayness. My eyes kept returning to the decoy I had planted on the sand by the Lanikai boat ramp, at the exact spot where Lehua had last seen Kula. It was her beach cover-up and contained her scent; though undetectable to me, it would be as strong as perfume to the sensitive nose of a retriever.
Lehua had carried her surfboard onto the beach after riding waves with the dog at Flat Island—Popoi‘a or “fish rot” in Hawaiian—a small coral islet and seabird sanctuary about a quarter mile off shore. When she turned around, Kula was gone.
The sky began to lighten. There was still no one on the beach. I switched on the dome light and scanned the morning’s Star-Advertiser. I flipped first to the obituaries. None yet for Dr. Carreras. I found myself thinking about him—retired psychiatrist, collector of vintage sports cars, Tantalus resident, and neighbor of my client. The doctor’s death still didn’t sit well with me. He had promised to tell me something about Buckingham. And now I would never know. I wondered if the doctor was putting me on. I wondered if he said what he said because he hated his neighbor. After all, Buckingham had called him a miserable bloke. The more I thought about it, the more I believed Dr. Carreras. I believed he had something to tell me—something I would find out later. The hard way.
No use fretting. I had a dog to find. I checked the “Lost & Found” section:
LOST
“Kula” golden retriever, male, 3 years, blond coat, at Kailua Beach Park on Sunday 6/19. $1,000 reward.
The ad ended with my office phone number. The reward, suggested by Maile and approved by Buckingham, was more than the typical stolen dog could bring on the black market.
As for “Found” pets in the classifieds, there was only one:
FOUND
Small brown female dog w/short hair and red collar in Pearl City area on 6/14.
Wrong color. Wrong size. Wrong sex. Wrong place.
The sky in the east began to glow. The beach sprang to life with early-morning walkers. Some were solitary, some in pairs, and some accompanied by canine companions that ambled alongside them or dashed into the surf after sticks and balls and floating toys. One dog looked like a spaniel, one like a black lab, another had the spots of a Dalmatian. One was a golden retriever—dark red. But no sign of Kula.
I glanced back at the Star-Advertiser. In the Hawai‘i section, a headline and photo caught my eye:
Where Is Cheyenne Sin?
Radio Pitchman’s Wife Still Missing
Cheyenne Sin had been a fashion model in her youth and still looked the part: tall and impossibly thin. Jet black hair. Skin luminescent as moonlight. In her long, shapely legs and delicate features I could see a resemblance to Lehua.
I usually have a hunch about missing-person cases. But this one wasn’t sending me any strong signals. I wasn’t ready to believe Mrs. Gum’s theory that Buckingham murdered his wife. Nor was I ready to let him off the hook. He was a man accustomed to getting his way. But was he capable of killing anyone who might block it? Even his own wife?
To what extent Buckingham may have been involved, I could only guess. And how much the unfavorable publicity had shaken his investors’ faith, I could also only guess. But I was concerned. If Buckingham went under, as the late Dr. Carreras predicted, who would pay me when my retainer ran out?
As the sun peeked above the horizon, foot traffic on the beach came to a halt. Everybody faced east like pilgrims observing a religious rite. I set down my coffee cup on the transmission hump and watched. Quite the scene. The human file glowed in the sun. Nobody moved—except the dogs. After a while I grabbed Kula’s photo and walked down to get a closer look.
Before I reached the shore, the sun cleared the ocean and the rite was over. Everybody was moving again. I hailed a slim brunette in a bikini before her boxer dragged her down the beach.
“Hoku!” she commanded. “Heel!”
The boxer kept pulling.
I stepped up and flashed Kula’s photo. “Have you seen this dog?”
“Looks familiar.” She planted her feet in the sand as Hoku tugged at the reins. “Very familiar.”
“Do you remember where you saw him last?” I was hopeful.
“Isn’t he that surfing dog, the one that rides waves with the girl?”
“That’s him. Have you seen him?”
“On TV.”
“Right.” I tried to jog
her memory. “But have you seen him here on this beach?”
“Here? On Kailua Beach?”
I nodded.
“Never.”
I shrugged. “Well. Thanks. If you do . . .” But Hoku had already started hauling his mistress away.
Next I tried a sandy-haired man walking a grey dog that had the gait of a racehorse.
“What kind is this?” I said to start the conversation.
“Weimaraner,” he replied. “Silver, sit!” he commanded and the big dog snapped down.
“Beautiful.” I handed him Kula’s photo. “Ever seen this one?”
He studied Kula’s image. “I saw a dog like this with a surfer on Sunday out by Flat Island.”
I perked up. “What exactly did you see?”
“The golden retriever was hunched on the front of the guy’s board. I saw ‘em ride two or three waves. The dog never fell off. Not once. It was amazing. He just hunkered down and hung on, even in the white water.”
“Could the surfer have been a girl?”
“I don’t know . . . It’s a long way out there.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose.”
“Did you see them later on the beach—either the surfer or the dog?”
“No. They were still in water when I took Silver home.”
“Here’s my card.” I handed it to him, feeling like I’d made progress. “Please call me if you think of anything else. The golden retriever is missing. There’s a reward. His owner would be very grateful for his safe return.”
“OK.” He took the card and Silver led him away.
Scanning the beach for my next prospect, I settled on a tutu, or grandmotherly type, trailing behind a fawn-colored dog that looked like a miniature hippopotamus. It had deeply wrinkled skin, a pug nose, and curling tail.
“Unusual dog,” I said. “What kind is it?”
“Shar-Pei,” the tutu said. “It’s a Chinese breed.”
“Are they nice dogs?”
“The best.” She flashed a smile.
I handed her Kula’s photo. “Ever seen this one?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Here—on Kailua Beach?” I asked.
“Not on the beach,” she said, “in a car heading toward the Pali. It was on Sunday morning. Ah, two people were in the car—yeah, a man and a woman.” She nodded with certainty. “The dog was in back.”
“You sure it was this dog?”
“How could I miss him?” she said. “They were stopped at a red light. I stared at his pretty coat until they got the green.”
“What about the two people? Was the woman a teenager with red hair?”
“No. She had black hair, I think. Definitely not red. The man was wearing a baseball cap.”
“What kind of car?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was big—one of those, ah . . . SUVs. Tan or bronze.” She thought for a moment. “I take it the dog shouldn’t have been along for the ride?”
I nodded and handed her my card. “Please call me if you remember anything else.”
“I promise,” she said. Her Shar-Pei pulled her down the beach.
eleven
At eight a.m. I opened Island Insta-Print in Kailua town with my order for five hundred posters of the missing retriever. Each one listed his description and details about his disappearance—plus the $1,000 reward. The theory was that if Kula was stolen the thief might be lured by the easy money of the reward, rather than face the potential risks of reselling the dog. Even if Kula had simply wandered off, the posters would be a strong incentive to contact me.
Waiting for my order, I walked two blocks to Windward Pets and asked for the store manager, the same woman who was quoted in a story Maile had clipped. Charlene Nogata had straight black hair, brown eyes, and her ear to local gossip.
“Did you hear about that Kailua couple arrested for pet theft?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “tell me.”
“Spyder Silva and Reiko Infante. They’re awaiting trial. The indictment says they’re part of an organized pet theft ring,”
“You know them?”
“I don’t know them,” she said, “but I know where they live. Their address was in the paper—a front-page story a few weeks ago.”
I vaguely remembered the story.
“Windward Sands apartments—about three blocks that way . . .” She pointed in the direction I had come. “Behind Aloha Auto Parts.”
“Eh, thanks. I have time to kill.”
“They’re not the kind of people you’d want to meet in a back alley,” she said.
“Understood.”
“Sleazy.” She pointed again towards the Windward Sands.
* * *
I hiked a few blocks and there it was. In the long shadow cast by the auto parts store stood a faded brown apartment building. It had seen better days: cracked and missing jalousies, rotting wood trim, and a parking lot that looked more like a wrecking yard. Not the sort of place you’d normally find a pedigree dog. Among a row of mailboxes on the ground floor, I found the names Silva & Infante. Apartment 1J.
It was a corner unit and I had to knock three times before someone answered. When the door finally opened there stood a man, naked from the waist up. Tattoos covered every inch of skin I could see. The largest one, on his chest, showed crossed assault rifles coiled with a cobra. Beneath that was: KILL ‘EM ALL, LET GOD SORT ‘EM OUT.
Sleazy. I could see what the pet store owner meant. Though I wasn’t shaking in my boots. Guys like him were mostly show.
“Watchu want?” He reeked of sardines.
“Are you Spyder Silva?”
He nodded.
Behind him, a hard looking woman lounged on a sofa having a smoke. Her stained robe suggested she had just rolled out of bed. Reiko Infante?
I handed him my card, showed him Kula’s photo, and hauled out my pidgin. “Evah see dis dog?”
“Who wen’ send you heah?” Silva snarled.
“One neighbor ovah dere.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of Windward Pets.
“Dey wrong, brah. I nevah seen dis dog.” He started to close the door.
I stepped forward. “What kine car you drive?”
“Spyder!” the woman shouted. “Tell ‘em to fuck off.”
“Shut up, awready.” The man handed me back my card. “Da black toyota truck in da lot. Go check ‘em out.” The door slammed in my face.
I wandered back out to the parking lot and before long found the black pickup. It was raised high with knobby off-road tires and displayed a bumper sticker: P.E.T.A.—People Eating Tasty Animals. But it wasn’t bronze. Or an SUV. I peeked inside. Unbelievable. On the floor in front of the passenger seat was an automatic pistol. It looked like a Beretta. Silva ought to think twice about leaving his weapon in plain view, especially when he and his playmate were under indictment. But he didn’t strike me as the thinking type.
I walked away shaking my head. Though the tips I‘d been getting so far added up to nothing, the two alleged pet thieves had scored a spot on my suspect list. Despite the fact that Kula didn’t appear to be inside their apartment and that Silva’s truck looked nothing like a tan SUV, it was too much of a coincidence that he and Infante were awaiting trial for pet theft. And that they lived in Kailua, less than a mile from where Kula disappeared. Plus, I flat out didn’t like either one of them.
* * *
Five hundred posters in hand, I made my way among the businesses of Kailua town, asking if shop owners would display them. Most were cooperative. And many offered heartfelt stories about the time their own mele or Kaipo or Duke went missing.
My cell phone beeped. Madison Highcamp. She left a text message:
Tonight.
I didn’t reply. I knew what she meant.
Then I drove to Lanikai Elementary School, on the edge of Kailua Beach. The Principal’s husband, Creighton lee, ran HPD’s photo lab and was a surfing buddy. I’d never met his wife, marianne. She looked to be in her mid-forties. She was p
retty and slightly plump.
“Kai,” she smiled warmly. “It’s so nice to meet you. Creighton’s told me so much about you.”
I cringed.
“He calls you a ‘soul surfer.’ And to Creighton that’s good.”
Soul surfer meant someone who surfs for the love of riding waves—not for competition, not for glory, not to be cool, not for any other reason than pure passion.
“Creighton’s too generous,” I said. “He’s the original soul surfer. I can’t compare with him.”
“So,” she looked at me curiously, “what brings you to Lanikai Elementary?”
“A famous surfing dog. Maybe you’ve heard of him? His name is Kula.”
She looked puzzled. “No, afraid I—”
Then I pleaded my case. I had a missing dog to find, time was of the essence, and her students could help by putting up posters. Not only that, I would pay.
She told me to wait outside the fifth and sixth grade rooms while, just before recess, she repeated my spiel. As the kids trotted out, three volunteered. Noe and Tiffy, two giggly girls who looked like twins, and Ronson, a cool dude in a North Shore t-shirt. The three of them were friends. After I called their parents for approval, we agreed to meet at the end of the school day.
In the meantime, I returned to my Kailua Beach stakeout. Dog-walkers were few and far between that time of day, I found out, and the dog-less folks I approached offered no help.
When school let out I picked up my student helpers. I put my surfboard on the roof racks to make room inside the Impala. They were enthusiastic. I found out each one had a pet. Ronson’s family had a bichon frise, Noe’s a black Lab, and Tiffy’s a wayward parakeet named Blu. The two girls, it turned out, were not twins. They just looked alike. The kids chatted about their pets while I drove from one utility pole to the next. The girls’ giggles went away once we got down to business. I mentioned the likelihood that Kula was stolen.
