Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout Read Online Free PDF Page B

waving like flags in the breeze. Ham watched over my
mahi
sizzling on the grill, then stuck his hand in a plastic container of pickles.
    “You like pickles, Alika?” Ham raised his eyes to my cousin.
    “Everyt’ing, brah. Da works!”
    “So da California surfer’s leash snap, or what?” I asked Ham as he flipped my fish fillet and piled pickles and onions and lettuce on Alika’s sandwich.
    “Fo’ sure. Was not hooked to da board anymo’. No way could fly dat high.”
    “You spot him aftah da wipeout?”
    “Nah,
da buggah
gone. Undah da water. Nobody in da lineup see him. Was late, brah, aftah sunset.” Ham shrugged his shoulders, tattoos rippling over his brown biceps.
    After downing our sandwiches, Alika and I cruised every surf shop in Hale‘iwa, trying to track down Corky’s missing board and the Sunset Beach woman who had found it. Tropical Rush, Strong Current, Surf n’ Sea, again, and all the rest. I questioned everyone I could, but nobody knew much about Corky, other than his well-publicized wipeout. One person did recall seeing the California surfer showboating through Hale‘iwa in a BMW convertible. Another mentioned a girlfriend.
    “Girlfriend?” I was curious. “Was she blonde and pregnant?” Summer had told me she didn’t accompany her husband to Hawai‘i, but maybe that wasn’t the full story.
    “No, this lady had red hair,” I was told. “And she didn’t look pregnant.”
    Was Corky pulling the wool over Summer’s eyes, stepping out with a redhead in a BMW? Or was it really Corky they had seen?
    I left my card at each and every surf shop in Hale‘iwa and asked to be called if any board resembling Corky’s turned up. Though I had not yet discovered much, Summer was definitely getting her money’s worth of my time.
    Guiding my Impala back to Honolulu, the allegation that Corky had a redhead girlfriend started bothering me. I decided I wouldn’t mention it yet to Summer. In her condition, she needed to think the best of her husband.
    It was late afternoon by the time I returned to Maunakea Street. Beyond Mrs. Fujiyama’s display cases I caught a glimpse of Leimomi in the back room, stringing a rose bud lei.
    Leimomi.
We had a date tonight. If I missed it this time, I’d be hard-pressed for an explanation.
    Inside my office the red message light was flashing again. I first dialed Leimomi’s Punchbowl duplex and I left a message that I would pick her up at seven. My conscience salved, I reached over to my answering machine and pressed Play.
    “Hello, Mr. Cooke. This is Summer McDahl. Any chance I could see you? Same place? Tomorrow morning at nine?“
    Why not at my office? When I returned Summer’s call there was no answer, then a recorded announcement came on—a gravelly male voice with a thick foreign accent: “Leave message at tone, if you please. Cannot talk right now.”
    The accent was different than any I had heard before. Middle Eastern? Asian? European? As I left my message I wondered if that voice might belong to the owner of a black Mercedes. I hung up and stared at the phone.
    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