Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

by Hughes, Chip

  Before leaving my office that afternoon I tried track down the convertible Corky was allegedly seen driving. There was only a handful of “high-line” dealerships in Honolulu that traded in pre-owned luxury vehicles like BMWs. I dialed up each number. But aside from trying to sell me one of their fine automobiles, none were much help. I moved on to Honolulu’s sole BMW dealership. The salesman who answered was smoother, but just as persistent as the last.

  “The Ultimate Driving Machine . . .” he announced, sounding like a TV commercial. “Can I put you behind the wheel?”

  “Swell, I’d love to.” I gave him hope. “How about tomorrow morning?”

  Little did he know I could no more afford a new BMW than a Porsche or Ferrari. I made a mental note to park my old Chevy down the block.

  That night I showered and dressed, then drove to Leimomi’s duplex. She shared a dingy shack with three other women on the shadowy backside of Punchbowl. A narrow, pot-holed driveway led past two other duplexes to her place, which sat amidst a red tangle of bougainvillea. Aside from this splash of color, her only view was of laundry hanging on the neighboring lanai.

  A full-time student with a part-time job, Leimomi was constantly strapped. My own threadbare life probably looked bright and glistening by comparison. At least I surfed and, through my work, traveled to the neighbor islands and sometimes to the mainland. Maybe that was part of my attractiveness to her?

  Swinging into her dusky lane, I felt the same surge of excitement that I always did approaching her place. And an equally strong twinge of guilt. While the dank duplex gave off a certain moldy, rotting odor, it also smelled like . . . love.

  This was the place Leimomi and I had discovered each other for the first time, her rusty bedsprings singing a high-pitched siren song that drowned out even her scratchy clock radio. The room got as steamy as a sauna. We stayed in bed through that first night and the whole next day—snoozing, whispering, making love. Leimomi cried. I comforted her. We made love again. Neither of us wanted to leave. By four in the afternoon we got so hungry we ordered two Domino’s pizzas and ate them both.

  With Leimomi’s euphoric first taste of love came, for me, an unspoken responsibility. After our breathless twenty-four hours together in bed, she glommed onto me like a faithful pet. Every time I turned around, she was there. I hadn’t counted on that. Sometimes, I admit, I longed for a way to slip away without hurting her.

  Leimomi was unusually quiet on the ride to dinner at Cafe Diamond Head. She had chosen the Pacific-Rim establishment with its reputation for flamboyant fusion cuisine. Filet mignon wasabe with mango-macadamia chutney staked on Kahuku sweet potatoes. That sort of thing. Its high prices did something toward assuaging my guilt.

  We sat at a table overlooking the soaring brow of the islands’ most famous crater, barely visible in the fading twilight. I glanced at the pricey wine list and ordered a beer. Leimomi did too. We raised our glasses and I toasted Leimomi’s beauty and good health. We were off to a good start. Her earlier upset seemed to be wearing off.

  Sipping my beer, I noticed two men in black suits sitting across from us who appeared, from their overly formal attire, to be malihini. They were an odd pair in this chic Honolulu restaurant, where casual aloha attire was the norm. They kept gazing toward Leimomi, which kind of flattered me. They’d probably never seen a more beautiful island girl.

  Just then I made the mistake of mentioning I had surfed that morning at Waimea Bay. The usually soft-spoken Leimomi reacted in a way that set my teeth on edge.

  “I wish you wouldn’t ride those huge waves,” she said stridently. “Surfers get killed, you know.”

  “I know.” I tried to put her mind at ease. “I’m working on a case involving that California surfer who died last Christmas Eve at Waimea. That’s why I was there.”

  “What’s to investigate?” she asked, still with a sharpness in her voice that surprised me.

  “His insurance company won’t pay because of some questions about his wipeout. Like, did he really die? Or was he faking it?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing for sure yet. But if he was trying to escape his pregnant wife and the responsibilities of fatherhood, I can think of a lot easier ways.”

  Leimomi gazed at me silently. Her cheeks colored. “Kai . . .” she began and then stopped.

  “What, Lei?” She was starting to worry me.

  “I’m thinking . . . “ She paused again and tears welled in her eyes. “No, I can’t burden you . . . until I’m sure . . .”

  “Leimomi, you already have.” I was getting agitated. She was dangling a carrot in front of me, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to bite it.

  “That surfer,” she started again, “trying to escape the responsibilities of fatherhood . . .”

  “What? Does he remind you of your father? How he skipped out on you and your mother?” I was grasping at something, anything, to steer the conversation away from me, and remembered that Leimomi’s dad had been put away for dealing drugs.

  “Well, I do wonder about Daddy and I miss him, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “What were you thinking?” I was starting to sweat.

  “Kai, I’m pregnant.” She watched my face for a response.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, my expression frozen.

  “I’m over a week late . . .” Leimomi blushed. “I’m always, I mean, I’m usually on time, like a clock.”

  “O.K.” My aloha shirt suddenly felt swampy. “Let’s not overreact . . . I mean . . . it’s perfectly natural. We’ll figure something out. Let’s stay calm.”

  “I’d love to have our baby, Kai,” she went on, her tears flowing now, “but this isn’t . . . the best time in my life . . . not until I finish my courses.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t a false alarm, Lei?” Maybe she had calculated wrong. She sometimes did that, confusing dates or dollar amounts. God, I hoped she was wrong.

  “I doubt it. I’m too long overdue.”

  I sat back in my chair and took another drink of beer, which now tasted pretty flat. I guess it was too late to slip away.

  Seven

  I sat staring into my coffee at Denny’s in Waikiki the next morning. As much as I cared for Leimomi, I knew I didn’t want to be the father of her baby. How did I let it go this far? I tried to picture Leimomi in the same state as Summer, swollen with child, then shook the image out of my head.

  Nine o’clock came and went. Summer still hadn’t shown.

  I tried to focus on the case. What about that gravelly thick accent at the Kahala phone number Summer had given me? The voice didn’t fit her profile. If she or Corky had friends in Hawai‘i, they would more likely be people like themselves—transplanted Californians or kama‘aina haole types, or maybe surfers who sounded local. But not wealthy foreigners who lived in O‘ahu’s poshest oceanside enclave.

  Through the steam swirling skyward from my cup I watched the morning flow of beach-goers and surfers filing down Kapahulu Avenue. No rain today. The sun glowed over Diamond Head and glinted on the tiny shore break of Waikiki Beach. I gazed down in front of Starbucks, figuring Summer would be hard to miss in the crowd. No sign of her.

  At quarter after nine a bakery van painted with a big red heart with the word “Love’s” inside it pulled to the curb by the ABC Store next to Starbucks. The driver began unloading donuts and sweet rolls and cinnamon buns destined for Denny’s. I sipped my coffee. Then a black Mercedes, maybe the same one that had followed me, pulled alongside the van. The van obstructed my view, so I couldn’t see who got out. Two doors slammed, then the Mercedes pulled away. I kept my eyes on the van until I heard, behind me, Summer’s whispering voice.

  “Mr. Cooke?” She edged into the booth across from me. Today’s maternity dress was baby blue, which did nice things for her eyes. “Have you found any evidence yet?” She cut straight to the chase.

  “I’m working on it. Yesterday I interviewed several surfers who saw Corky at v
arious North Shore breaks. One named Ham Makanani was in the water Christmas Eve at Waimea and saw the whole thing. He doesn’t doubt your husband drowned, but it’s going to be tough to locate any tangible evidence.”

  “But isn’t tangible evidence what we need to convince Mr. Gold?”

  “More or less, and I will pursue every lead . . .” I thought for a moment about her husband’s alleged redhead girlfriend.

  “I hope you find something,” Summer glanced down at her enormous belly, “before the baby comes.”

  I followed her gaze and couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “Should you have flown here, Summer, with your baby due so soon?”

  “I had to make this trip.” She peered at me with those intense violet eyes. “Without that insurance money the baby and I are lost.”

  “What about your family, or Corky’s family? Can’t they help?”

  “Not really.” Summer sighed. “Corky was estranged from his parents. He deeply loved his mother, but never got along with his stepfather. A few years ago they moved to Idaho. I don’t even know where in Idaho. But Corky’s folks never cared much for me, anyway. They didn’t call or write when Corky died. I thought I’d at least hear from his mother.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Just my mother is left. She lives on social security from check to check. She usually needs help from me—not the reverse . . .” Summer paused. “If I didn’t need that insurance money I wouldn’t have come all this way.”

  The waitress refilled my coffee. I decided to take a different track. “The BMW convertible you mentioned. I’m going to visit the dealership later this morning, but I need more to go on. The model, the color, the year, the license—any specifics would help.”

  “We’ll, I’m not a ‘car person.’” She uttered the phrase wistfully. “Cars, for me, are just a way to get from here to there. But Corky loved expensive, exotic cars, though he could never afford to own the ones he worked on in his detailing business.”

  “Were there any BMWs, even in California, that he may have he detailed?”

  “Mmmm . . . there was this one beautiful maroon car with cream-colored leather.”

  “Was it a convertible?”

  “I think so . . .” She paused again. “Yes, the top was cream or beige, the same color as its seats.”

  “So the only BMW you can remember him working on was a maroon and cream convertible? Any idea what year it was?”

  “Brand new. Or almost new.”

  “Do you remember the owner?”

  “Only that it was a California customer.” Summer looked puzzled. “But I doubt that car would be here in Hawai‘i.”

  “You’re probably right. But it’s all we have to go on. I’ll check it out with the dealer.“

  “Will you call me as soon as you find out anything?”

  “Of course . . .” I hesitated. “You know, when I called you before, I wasn’t sure I dialed the right number. There was a man’s voice on the answering machine—an older man with a thick accent.”

  “I got your message.” Summer looked away. She rose, her bulging figure setting her slightly off-balance. “Do you need any more money?”

  “No.” I waved her off. “You’ve given me plenty for now.”

  Summer made her way toward Denny’s exit, then down the stairs to street level. Where the Love’s bakery van had been, Summer now waited by the curb. A man in a dark suit was talking on a cell phone next to her. Then I noticed he wasn’t just standing next to her; he had his free arm hooked into one of hers, as if escorting her.

  The black Mercedes pulled up again and Summer and the man climbed into the back seat. It whisked them off in the direction of Diamond Head, leaving me more than curious about Summer’s mysterious friends.

  Down by the Waikiki Aquarium, where I had parked under a shady stand of ironwoods, I climbed into my Impala and headed for Honolulu’s sole BMW dealership. Chances were, if the car Corky was seen in had been purchased or serviced here, the dealer would know about it.

  After a few minutes traveling ewa on Kapi‘olani Boulevard, I pulled to the curb just beyond Ward Avenue, parking my old Chevy out of view from the showroom. I strolled down the street and then through the showroom doors, trying to look as confident as any potential new luxury car buyer.

  The mirror-like marble floor reflected an impressive array of German automobiles. While waiting for the salesman I had time to admire them: sedans in midnight blue and metallic silver, a pastel yellow convertible, a flame red sports car. I eyed supple leather seats in one sleek “driving machine” after another. Had I forty or sixty or eighty grand to drop on a car, this would be a nice place to start.

  I had paid only one grand for my thirty-year-old Impala and the grieving widow who sold it to me was very pleased to get that. The car would have gone for less, but somebody had told her it was a classic. A single alloy wheel on the titanium metallic sport sedan now in my gaze probably cost as much as my old Chevy. Does that mean the BMW would be more fun? I don’t know. But as long as I can ride waves, any wheels that can get me and my board to the beach will do fine.

  “Can I put you behind the wheel of that sensational M5?” The grinning salesman approached me with his right arm extended. “You must be Mr. Cooke?”

  “Yes,” I said, shaking his hand, “But one problem—to buy it I’d have to sell my soul.”

  “Well,” the salesman’s smile broadened, “how much is your soul worth?”

  “Actually,” I said, starting my spiel, “As I mentioned on the phone, I‘m trying to trace a certain BMW. I’m a private investigator.”

  His smile faded. “Oh, well . . . if I can help.”

  I handed him my card. When he glanced at the longboard rider, he perked up again. “Do you know anything about the car?”

  “Not much. The deceased’s wife can remember only one BMW her husband detailed in his business in California.”

  “California?” The salesman looked dubious.

  “I know. It’s a long shot.”

  “Well, we do buy and sell a lot of cars—and some have out of state plates, occasionally.”

  “The car she remembers was a new or nearly new convertible—maroon with cream-colored leather and top.”

  The salesman seemed to be scanning his memory. “A few months ago we took in a maroon convertible, but with a black top and no California plates.”

  “It’s worth following up.”

  “I didn’t do the transaction. Another salesman did who’s since moved on. Hold on a minute and I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked from the showroom and disappeared into an inner office.

  Minutes later he returned with a handful of stapled forms. “Let’s see, we took in the maroon convertible in December . . . December thirteenth . . . and I was wrong about the top. It was tan, not black.“ He studied some figures. “Boy, we got a deal on this.” He flipped between pages. “It looks like the seller took way below wholesale bluebook for the vehicle—less than he had to if he would have done his homework. And I remember the car was in great shape.”

  “What was the owner’s name?”

  “DiCarlo.” The salesman glanced at the colored forms. “Damon DiCarlo of Balboa, California.”

  “Damn.”

  “Not the guy you’re looking for?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “The car was registered in California,” the salesman continued. “And had California plates.”

  Just then a woman in a silk dress and spiked heels—someone who looked like she could afford a new BMW—strolled in.

  “Excuse me a moment,” said the salesman as he eagerly approached his new prospect. They talked briefly and then the woman must have uttered something to the effect of “just looking,” and the salesman backed off. He returned to me.

  “So what happened to this maroon convertible?” I asked as he walked toward me.

  “We sold it to an attorney on Bishop Street. But since he’s a current customer, technically, I can�
��t give you his name.” The salesman held a pink form carelessly within my view, his thumb next to the words “William J. Grossvendt.”

  “I understand.” I said. “Confidentiality and all that.”

  The salesman winked. Then he seemed to have a flash of inspiration. “Now I remember—not one hour after the new buyer signed for the car, a foreign gentleman came in and wanted it—wanted it badly. He offered to pay more, to fork over a new retail price if I would sell it to him. But I couldn’t, of course, because the car was already sold.”

  “Why do you think he wanted it so much?”

  “Well, the strange thing was, we had another maroon convertible—a brand new one—out at the dock ready for pick up. That one must have had the black top I was remembering. Anyway, if the buyer could have waited one day—just one day—it would have been his.”

  “Did he wait?”

  “No, we never saw the man again.” The salesman arched his brows.

  I thanked him and found my way out. By then he was trying his charm again on the woman in heels.

  Down the street, parked alongside the curb, my old Impala looked ancient compared to those shiny BMWs. It’s a classic, I told myself. A timeless piece of Americana. Besides, my longboard fits right in.

  Eight

  I hurried back to Maunakea Street and cracked my O‘ahu phone directory. William J. Grossvendt was listed—both a home phone with an ocean-side Portlock address in Hawai‘i Kai, and an office number on Bishop Street: Grossvendt, Weller, and Chang, Attorneys at Law. Bishop Street is where the swankiest attorneys in Honolulu hang their shingles, in the high-altitude offices of mirrored skyscrapers. Grossvendt certainly earned enough as an lawyer to purchase a new BMW, so why did he cheap out and buy a used one?

  Since it was a Wednesday morning I tried his office first. The phone rang twice and then an upbeat receptionist said, “Good Morning! Grossvendt, Weller, and Chang—specializing in trusts and wills.”