Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series)
Other Surfing Detective books
by Chip Hughes
MURDER ON MOLOKA‘I
WIPEOUT!
SLATE RIDGE PRESS
P.O Box 1886
Kailua, HI 96734
slateridgepress@hawaii.rr.com
ISBN: 0982944438
ISBN-13: 9780982944431
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9829444-5-5
First Edition, First Printing 2011
© 2011 Chip Hughes. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Slate Ridge Press.
for Judy
I looked at the cast-off animals
and saw in their eyes love and hope, fear and dread,
sadness and betrayal.
I was angry.
“God,” I said, “Why don’t you do something?”
“I have,” God replied. “I created you.”
—author unknown
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks once again to my wife, collaborator, and inspiration, Charlene Avallone; and to veteran Honolulu PI Stu Hilt. Specialist editors who assisted include Moke Strassberg president of the Golden Retriever Club of Hawai‘i; Robert Sullivan, Anne Kennedy, and Roger Tansley, who checked Australian places and phrases; and Normie Salvador and Rodney Morales, who sharpened pidgin dialect. Mahalo to Josie Morgan of the Hawai‘i Island Humane Society; and to Lorna and Shel Hershinow and Laurie Tomchak, for correcting my many mistakes. Thanks also to Suzanne McClure, les Peetz, Raybern Freitas, Kirsten Whatley, Suzanne Kukana, and to CEO Dale madden and Art Director Scott Kaneshiro at Island Heritage. I’m very grateful to Christine Matthews and Robert Randisi of the Private Eye Writers of America—an indispensable organization for writers of P.I. fiction. Warm aloha to my sister, Judy Michener, to whom this book is dedicated, my webmaster John Michener, and my niece April Stokes. Finally, thank you to Cissy Crosby and Donna Engelbardt for the cover photo of the Boomer (a.k.a. Kula), the golden retriever who inspired this book.
one
Friday morning, I’d barely opened my office window to the trade wind breeze when a knock rattled the door. Frank Fernandez’s huge frame filled the doorway. The scowl on his face might have scared me if I hadn’t known him better.
“Kai, I gotta ask you some questions,” said the gravel-voiced homicide detective. His bloodshot eyes suggested he hadn’t slept much the previous night.
Frank Fernandez and I had crossed paths before, working the same case from different angles. His linebacker bulk and macho vibe seldom failed to make bad guys tremble. Even with good guys Frank could be a grizzly bear or a teddy bear, depending on his mood. I hoped this morning he was feeling warm and cuddly.
“Fire away, Frank.” I gestured to my client’s chair and he wedged himself in. The spicy scent of his aftershave followed him down.
“Where were you last night after midnight?” He skipped the pleasantries.
“Home in bed,” I said.
“Anybody with you?” He studied my face.
“The sad truth is, Frank, I slept alone.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No.”
“So you’ve got no alibi?”
“For what?” I disliked the direction he was going.
Fernandez uttered a man’s name—the man I’d met in Waimānalo the night before. “He was found early this morning with a crushed skull. Two of his friends accuse you. They say you killed him last night, then you stole his shark-tooth necklace.”
“I don’t make empty threats,” I said. “And why would I kill for a shark’s tooth when I’ve already got sixteen of them etched on my chest?”
“Do you deny you drew your revolver on him?”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and retreated behind my desk. “He and his Moke pals tried to steal my surfboard. I drew to scare them off, to save my board. I would never even have talked with the guy, but he said he had a tip for a case I’m working on. Besides, didn’t you say his skull was bashed?”
“What case?” Frank asked, deflecting my question.
“A missing person. Nobody you know.” I was getting agitated.
“That’s not what I heard. I heard you’re looking for a dog.”
I glanced down at my feet. “OK . . . I’m looking for a dog, Frank. It’s not an easy thing to admit.”
“That’s funny, Kai. Very funny.” Fernandez sneered. “You’ve sunk to a new low.”
“These aren’t the best of times, Frank. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Give me a break.”
“I’m not on the city payroll like you. If I don’t have cases, I don’t get paid.”
“But looking for lost dogs?”
“Well, maybe I like cold noses and warm hearts.”
Fernandez laughed. “Next time I’ll bring my violin.”
No way would I tell the homicide detective who I was working for. The dog’s master, that is. Client confidentiality is a matter of principle. Even in the case of murder, and even when the finger was pointing at me.
two
Fernandez was right. I had sunk to a new low.
I had arrived there four days earlier. The June sky was the milky sapphire of a Blue Hawaiian as my ’69 Impala inhaled its last fumes of no-name gasoline, pinging and belching up to the summit of Tantalus Drive—a winding mountain road with breathtaking views of Honolulu. But it wasn’t the views I found tantalizing on this Monday morning, so much as the visible wealth that lined the switchback drive in the form of sprawling mansions, exotic landscaping, and luxury cars.
I was heading for one of those mansions owned by Barry Buckingham—entrepreneur, yachtsman, and charismatic radio pitchman who sold precious metals, gold mostly, over the airwaves.
I knew Mr. Buckingham had his detractors. He’d been called a fraud, charlatan, huckster, and a few other choice names. The high cost of living in Hawai‘i makes islanders
vulnerable to get-rich-quick schemes. And if we lose, we can always find someone to blame. Buckingham was an easy target, despite testimonials to his moneymaking wizardry. It was also common knowledge that people feared him.
Since he was my only paying client on the horizon, I gave Barry Buckingham the benefit of the doubt. Was I skeptical? Sure. But I couldn’t allow skepticism to come between me and a paycheck.
Surfing all day, every day, is nice work if you can get it. Even if I could afford to surf that much, there’s something about having a case that keeps me going. And ever since I found that big-wave rider in upcountry Maui who everyone thought had drowned, I’ve had a thing for locating missing persons. So never mind my qualms about the pitchman, I was anxious to meet him.
Mr. Buckingham’s wife had vanished four months earlier in February. The papers were full of stories about the odd disappearance of Cheyenne Sin. Honolulu police hadn’t come up with anything, except to suspect Mr. Buckingham himself. So when he said he needed my services, I naturally assumed he meant to search for his wife and get himself removed from the suspect list.
Since I’d never met the man, I figured he found me in the yellow pages or on the internet. My ads show a longboard rider and say SURFING DETECTIVE: CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS—ALL ISLANDS. For the record, I’m Kai Cooke. My first name means “sea” and my last comes from an old New England family. I’m thirty-four, single, and was hānaied, or adopted, by Hawaiian relations after my parents died when I was eight. I have sun-bleached brown hair and stand six feet even. Well, almost. At work I wear an aloha shirt, khakis, and sandals. At play I wear board shorts. I try to keep a balance between the two. Work and play, that is.
Neither the yellow pages nor my website had generated much business lately. Cases seemed as hard to catch as Waikīkī waves on a crowded Sunday afternoon. Two multi-state agencies—the PI equivalent of Walmart—had slammed their toll-free numbers and splashy ads next to mine. These agencies didn’t have offices or overhead in Honolulu—just local hired guns—so they could undercut even my cheapest prices.
That’s why I was climbing Tantalus to Buckingham’s hilltop estate. He called it Wonderview. From up here you could see from Diamond Head all the way to Pearl Harbor—almost worth the eleven million my prospect had dropped on the place.
Standing alone outside the white privacy wall that surrounded the mansion, I felt even more broke than I was—like a guy down on his luck begging for a job. Not far from the truth. I wandered the wall until I found a path, blocked by a green copper gate decorated with dolphins. A few words into an intercom got me buzzed through.
Around the rambling white Mediterranean villa sprawled a tennis court, swimming pool and spa, and enough open lawn to host a lū‘au with several hundred guests. Whether or not Buckingham was on the up-and-up, it looked as if he could afford my services.
I climbed granite steps to a sweeping portico and stood in front of massive koa doors. I didn’t have to knock. One swung open to a leggy teenager whose T-shirt displayed a windjammer at sea over the words Punahou Sailing Team. Her features were delicate, faintly Asian beneath carrot-colored hair. She did not greet me, just turned her back and shouted: “Daddy, he’s here!” then she left.
Taking this announcement for an invitation to enter, I crossed the marble threshold and waited.
The teenager returned with her father, a bigger, burlier man than I had imagined from his radio voice. It’s rare to see anyone in the islands dressed like Buckingham was. I figured it was the custom down under, since he came from Australia. The gold dealer’s charcoal double-breasted suit set off a cream-colored shirt and ruby tie that accentuated his ruddy complexion. Despite its elegance, his outfit looked ill-fitting on his meaty frame—shirt collar too tight, coat shoulders too broad—like of an overdressed gangster. To him, I must have looked underdressed in my aloha attire. Lucky he couldn’t see my board shorts underneath.
His right hand reached out, gleaming with gold rings. One had a diamond the size of a walnut. But even the glint of that rock could not disguise the hugeness of his hand and the power of its grip—more like that of a sailor or butcher than a precious metals broker. I could see why people might be afraid of him. At the same time I could see why his smile had won over so many.
“G’day, Mr. Cooke,” he announced in velvety Australian tones. “Welcome to Wonderview.”
“Thank you, sir.” I peered into eyes as pale blue as an empty sky. His black hair didn’t match his complexion. Near his scalp I could see red roots.
“You know who I am, of course,” he said with self-satisfaction. “And this is Lehua.” The teenager nodded.
My celebrity host led me, his daughter trailing behind, into an enormous sunken living room. He gestured to the floor-to-ceiling glass where the morning sun streamed in. The ocean view took in the entire panorama of the south shore—from the cobalt green lochs of Pearl Harbor to the turquoise waves of Waikīkī. Those waves looked inviting. I hoped I could concentrate on what Mr. Buckingham was about to tell me.
I pulled my eyes away from the windows and checked out four Hawaiian quilts on the walls. They were hand-sewn in traditional patterns I recognized from living with the Kealohas, my adopted Hawaiian family. ‘Ulu or breadfruit, pua aloalo or hibiscus, hala kahiki or pineapple, and kukui or candlenut tree. I was surprised how faded they were. You’d think someone who could afford such expensive pieces would take better care of them. At least keep them out of the sun. But Buckingham didn’t seem to know what he had.
He pointed me to an overstuffed leather chair of white hide that must have inconvenienced one very big cow. He and his daughter took a matching sofa at a right angle to me. They sat close together. Not touching, but close. The girl glanced up into his eyes. Was she looking for reassurance? Comfort? Courage?
“Mr. Cooke, I rang you because we’ve had a heartbreaking loss.”
“I’m so sorry about your wife, sir,” I said, truly feeling for him, while secretly smug that I knew my client’s needs even before he expressed them. Her disappearance had been on TV and in the papers, so it was hard to miss.
“Right. My wife, Cheyenne Sin, disappeared in February. Bloody awful! The police are looking, but have gotten nowhere. That’s why I called you about this other matter. I want a proper investigation. A discreet investigation.”
“What other matter, sir?”
“Yesterday at Kailua Beach Park where Lehua took him surfing, our beloved Kula disappeared. I believe he was pinched.”
“Pinched?”
“Nicked.” He gestured with his big hands. “Stolen.”
“You mean kidnapped?” I asked, thinking he was telling me another family member had disappeared.
“You could say that.” Buckingham pulled a starched white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “No worries, love.” He dried his daughter’s tears. “Mr. Cooke is going to find Kula,” he told her.
“Kula is your brother?” I glanced at the teenager, who was now openly crying.
“No,” she said through her tears—“my dog.”
three
“Your dog?”
“Kula is a special dog, Mr. Cooke,” Buckingham replied. “His name means ‘gold’ in Hawaiian, as I’m sure you know, and he’s the most stunning retriever you’ll ever see. A beautiful boy. Kula belonged to my wife.”
Buckingham didn’t strike me as the type to get sentimental about a pet—or even a wife. He did seem devoted to his daughter, though.
Lehua rose and picked up a photo album from the coffee table. She handed it to me. “This is Kula.” She sighed and returned to the sofa.
I opened the book of photos. All of the dog.
Kula was not red or sandy-brown like most golden retrievers, but sunny blond. His mane and feathering were luminous. His blond lashes set off dark brown eyes. Beautiful boy. Even I could see that this was one stunning canine. Pedigree was written all over him. And his collar—tanned and stitched leather—was embossed in gold with his name.
<
br /> “Nice-looking dog,” I said. “But finding lost pets isn’t my usual—”
“Kula is not just my wife’s dog,” Buckingham interrupted. “He’s a surfing dog. And you, I understand, are the Surfing Detective?”
“Yes, but I’m not a dogcatcher.”
“Take a look at this, mate.” Buckingham walked to a mammoth flat-screen TV and slipped in a DVD. The screen lit up with the blond retriever careering down the face of a massive wave at Mākaha. The dog was crouched low on the nose of a longboard piloted by Lehua. The narrator from a local TV news show referred to Kula as the “famous Hawaiian surfing dog.” I’d heard of dogs riding knee-high stuff, but never one who could handle a legendary big-wave venue like Mākaha. I had to admit I was impressed.
“So you can see,” Buckingham said as the video ended, “why we called you.”
“Yes, sir.” I cleared my throat and swallowed my pride. “I’ll need a retainer. One thousand up front to begin the investigation.”
“You’ll have the whole amount in cash before you leave.”
“Thanks,” I said. No surprise. Men like Buckingham carry more in their wallet than I carry in my bank account. “Now I have some questions for you.” I reached for the small spiral-bound pad in the pocket of my aloha shirt and the pen clipped to it. “Do you suspect anyone of stealing your dog?”