Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 14

  “It belonged to the man HPD thinks I killed. They say I did it for his necklace. So this could clear me.”

  Maile glanced at the shark’s tooth. “Homicide thinks you killed for this?”

  “According to Fernandez.”

  “He’s got to be kidding.”

  “He’s not,” I said. “And I don’t find it funny.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.”

  Maile put the reluctant retriever back into the car and I drove down the hill to the yacht club.

  * * *

  Evening was approaching and Honolulu streets were flowing freely now after rush hour. Within a few minutes we arrived at the harbor.

  Kula got antsy again. His tail whacked my surfboard, making the bop-bop-bop like a bongo drum. Maile put him back on leash and opened the door. Kula took off like a shot toward the docks.

  “Kula, heel!” Maile commanded.

  The retriever pulled with purpose. He led us right to the spot where the Golden Hinde should have been. That rescue board still was mounted by the empty slip.

  But the boat was gone.

  thirty-six

  Then we saw it. About forty yards from the dock, the big sloop was chugging under diesel power toward the harbor mouth. The gold dealer was at the helm.

  “You forgot something, Buckingham,” I shouted across the water and dangled Moku’s necklace in the air. The shark’s tooth glinted in the sun.

  Buckingham smiled and waved and said, “Cheers,” and kept going. The Golden Hinde was headed for the open sea.

  Kula was beside himself. His master was leaving him behind. The retriever barked and pulled on his leash.

  Maile grabbed the leash with both hands. “Sit!” she said.

  The dog kept pulling.

  Then from inside the cabin Lehua popped up and saw him on the dock. The girl screamed: “Kula!”

  Maile tried to hold him back, but when he saw the girl Kula ripped the leash from Maile’s hands and dove into the water. He swam toward the sailboat, churning up a white wake behind him. Maile and I watched him from the dock. He was a strong swimmer. And he was moving fast.

  “Kula!” Lehua leaned over the sailboat’s guardrail.

  The dog kept swimming. But he couldn’t catch up to the Golden Hinde.

  The girl turned to her father and we heard her shout: “Daddy, please!”

  But Daddy didn’t stop, or even slow the boat. Lehua shouted again. Buckingham kept his hand on the throttle. Kula fell farther behind.

  Suddenly the girl ran to the stern and jumped overboard.

  “Oh, my God!” Maile pointed.

  When Buckingham saw his daughter hit the water, he spun the wheel and turned the boat around.

  We watched the dog and girl swimming toward each other, and the sloop closing in on them. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I kicked off my sandals, stripped down to my board shorts, and grabbed the rescue board.

  I paddled as fast as I could to the middle of the harbor. But Buckingham’s boat intercepted Lehua before I could, its starboard bow coming between me and the girl and the dog. Both were on the other side. I couldn’t see the two and, luckily Buckingham, who was busy with them, couldn’t see me either.

  I grabbed onto a vinyl dock bumper hanging from the starboard bow of the Golden Hinde. The surfboard had no leash or line to tie to the boat, so I set the board free. Then I pulled myself up on the bumper and strained to see across the deck. Buckingham was bending over the port side, talking with his daughter, who apparently clung onto Kula and to another bumper.

  “We’ll send for him when we reach Bora Bora,” Buckingham was saying.

  “I won’t go without him,” Lehua insisted.

  “Get in the boat!” he shouted.

  “I don’t believe you,” she yelled back.

  “Lehua!”

  Then she said, “C’mon, Kula.”

  I heard splashes. Next I saw the girl and dog clear the port bow, both of them swimming for the dock. The surfboard I had set free was drifting toward them. Lehua swam for it and climbed on. Then she paddled to Kula and helped him on. The dog crawled to the nose and hung his front paws over the tip, just like I’d seen in the TV news video. The girl paddled for the slip where Maile was waiting.

  “Lehua!” Buckingham shouted. “You can bring the dog.”

  The girl kept paddling.

  “Blast you, then!” he screamed across the water. “Blast your mother too! What will you do without me, eh?”

  Buckingham returned to the wheel, pushed the throttle forward, and swung the sloop back toward the harbor mouth.

  I was dragged through the water as the Golden Hinde headed out to sea.

  The boat picked up speed. I dropped down on the bumper, keeping my head below deck level. I didn’t know what to do. I was unarmed and Buckingham, for sure, would have his snub-nose.

  The Golden Hinde cleared the harbor jetty and the rock pilings that surround Magic Island—the last spit of land before the open sea. He wasn’t turning back. Not even for his own daughter.

  Outside the jetty, a summer swell was rolling in. Bowls was ahead off the port side, and it looked six to eight feet, easy. Other breaks were going off. Lots of surfers were carving up the waves. Not me. I was hanging onto that bumper on the starboard side. And if I didn’t do something soon, I would be in very deep water.

  The Golden Hinde’s bow began to rise and fall over the swells. Buckingham shoved the throttle all the way forward and turned ewa, or to the west, offshore of Ala Moana Beach. He made no move to raise the sails.

  Before long we were making better time than I could ever do on my board. The yacht harbor shrunk behind us in our wake. The boat passed just outside the surf spots off Ala Moana Beach Park: Tennis Courts, Concessions, Big Rights, Marine-land, and finally Kewalos. Ahead was Point Panic.

  I kept my eye on the gold dealer at the helm. It was time to move.

  Another swell rolled under the boat. I hoisted myself up the bumper and rushed across the deck. I took Buckingham down. He went flat on his back. The wheel swung around and the sailboat yawed and started circling. I came down on top of him. He reached into his pocket and showed the snub-nose. I knocked the gun out of his hand. It slid across the deck, coming to rest against a toe rail. The boat kept circling. Going fast, but nowhere.

  Buckingham rushed not for the gun, but for the helm. He righted the wheel, punched a button that must have been an autopilot, and the boat stopped going in circles. But now we were headed for Point Panic. The rocks. Full throttle.

  The swells started coming at us from behind. The big sloop rode them like a seesaw. The stern rose and then the bow fell. Over and over again. I’m no sailor—I’m a surfer—but it seemed to me that this was no place for a boat to be: its tail to a summer swell and its nose heading for the rocks.

  Buckingham came at me on all fours. Before I could get up, he slipped his gold fingers around my neck. Another swell picked us up and the boat rode it like an outrigger canoe. He held onto my throat, trying the strangle the life out of me. I punched him in the ribs. He groaned and loosened his grip. I pushed him off of me and he fell backwards.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Point Panic. A body surfer was carving a big green barrel. He was milking the wave to the last drop and preparing to bail out before it hit the wall. Then I realized he was parallel to us. The Golden Hinde was riding the same wave right next to him! And the rocks were coming.

  The wave took us. The boat swept forward in a surge. We were doomed. Buckingham hopped up on the deck and started coming for me again. He would never make it.

  “Why’d you kill Moku?” I said as we were about to hit. “He was nobody.”

  “Hardly, mate.” Buckingham kept coming. “He worked for Scan—”

  Before he could finish, I heard the crack of the bow hitting the rocks and then a horrible splintering sound. The shock of our impact carried stern-ward. Buckingham, his center of gravity higher than mine, was thrown toward the rocks. The
next thing I knew, he was gone and I was in the surf. The Golden Hinde lay on its side in splinters next to me.

  The swells kept coming. I bobbed among the boat’s debris. I tried to swim away from the seawall, but each successive wave washed me closer. In the distance I saw that body surfer who had just milked the same wave swimming toward me. Another wave hit, bringing something heavy and sharp from the wreck with it—more quickly than I could swim.

  The lights went out.

  thirty-seven

  When I opened my eyes I was on a bed inside a pale green room. I felt like I was still floating. Something resembling a clothespin was attached to the tip of my right index finger. My upper left arm was encircled by a python-like band that made a beep-beep-beep-beep sound, echoing the beat of my heart. Numbers flashed on a monitor—48—50—52—48—counting the beeps. An IV was stuck in my left arm, connected to a tube and container above the bed. And overhead was the mother of all flood lamps blazing down on me.

  I wasn’t wearing my board shorts anymore. I was in something resembling a baby-blue nightshirt. Blankets covered me and I was very warm. I raised my left hand and felt my head. It was wrapped in a gauze bandage like a turban. There was a bump on the back of my head, so heavily bandaged I couldn’t feel my fingers on my scalp. I lowered my arm and then heard a woman’s voice.

  “Detective . . .”

  Two faces looked down at me. One was unfamiliar—a woman in a smock. The other, I recognized.

  “How ya feeling, Kai?” said the homicide detective.

  “Frank?”

  “Glad you made it,” he said.

  “Where am I?”

  “Queens Hospital. A piece of that wrecked boat smacked you in the head. You damned near drowned. A surfer pulled you out at Point Panic. You’ve got a pretty nasty gash, but the doc already stitched you up. You should be outta here by tomorrow.”

  “I don’t feel anything,” I said.

  “You won’t,” the nurse spoke up, “for a while. But once the anesthetic wears off, you’ll be glad for the meds Dr. Masaki prescribed for you.”

  “I’m not much for drugs.” I’ve always been stubborn about this. I don’t like taking anything except vitamins. My parents’ New England roots again.

  She shook her head, but Fernandez smiled down at me like I was his own son.

  “Buckingham?” I wondered aloud about the man who had put me there.

  “In surgery,” Fernandez said. “Broke his leg and a couple of vertebrae. He’s going to be laid up for a while.”

  “He killed Moku.”

  “Yeah, I got your message. But when I drove down to the yacht club, it was too late. You were already in the water.

  “What about his daughter—

  “Don’t worry,” Fernandez cut me off. “We’ll take it from here. Buckingham’s not going anywhere. He’ll be held on fraud and theft charges, even if we can’t hold him yet for murder.”

  “But what did you do with Lehua?”

  “I questioned her. She didn’t know much about what her father was into. Then I turned her over to Maile. She’s got the dog too.” Fernandez ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. “Maile returned your car, by the way. Nice lady. The K-9 guys all liked her.”

  I tried to nod, but my head was going nowhere.

  A little smile then turned up at the corners of Fernandez’s mouth. “So you dating her, or what?”

  “She’s an old friend. She was helping me with the pet case.”

  “She hasn’t dated much since Nestor died, far as I know. But when she’s ready,” he adjusted his belt, “yours truly is gonna be first in line.”

  “Lucky guy,” I said.

  “You should be so lucky.” Fernandez winked and left the room.

  * * *

  The next afternoon I was released from the hospital. The lump on the back of my head was the size of a block of Sex Wax, the stuff I rub on the deck of my board. But at least I could see straight. And I could walk. I was no longer numb. But I didn’t think I would need the painkillers the doc had prescribed. Remembering the nurse’s warning, I picked them up at the pharmacy anyway, along with an antibiotic and ice pack.

  An HPD officer was waiting for me in the lobby when I got out of the elevator. He led me to an unmarked car and we rode to the Beretania Street Station. Fernandez met me in his office and I told him the official version of the Buckingham story. I didn’t mention how I bent the law along the way. Frank was supremely satisfied, even without those details.

  Finally given a lift to my apartment, I fell into bed and called Maile. After four rings her answering machine kicked in. “Hi, you’ve reached Maile Barnes, tracer of missing pets. How can I help?”

  “Maile, it’s Kai . . .” I waited a few seconds, hoping she would pick up. “I just got out of the—”

  “Kai,” she said breathlessly, as if she’d run to the phone. “Are you okay? I would’ve come to the hospital to see you, but I’ve got Lehua and Kula with me. It’s kind of a zoo around here.”

  “Frank Fernandez told me,” I said, glad to hear her voice. “That was good of you to take them both.”

  “It’s just temporary. But they had nowhere else to go. HPD has closed off Buckingham’s house. And it’s no place for Lehua to be right now anyway—after what’s happened.”

  “How is Lehua?”

  “Doing well—considering. She’s a nice girl, Kai. I feel sorry for her. I don’t think she had any idea what was going on.”

  “Not until a few days ago,” I said. “I think she started to figure out then that her father wasn’t the man he pretended to be. It was quite a shock for her. I was there.”

  “Who’s going to take care of her? Her father will be doing time for the rest of his life. And her mother . . ?”

  “Her mother’s the wild card. If Scanlon didn’t kill her or Buckingham himself.”

  “I hope for Lehua’s sake she’s alive.”

  “Me too. But I don’t have to tell a veteran cop that after a woman’s been missing for months, the odds get very long that she’ll be found.”

  “Speaking of long odds,” she said, “how did you survive that ship wreck? Frank said it was miraculous. And how’s your head?”

  “A surfer pulled me out of the wreckage. I guess I owe him my life.

  As for my head, it’s just a bump. The doc gave me a few stitches. Nothing serious. I’ll be good as new in a few days. Which reminds me, how about that celebration I promised you?”

  “I’d love to. When you’re feeling better. And when we find out what’s going to happen with Lehua and Kula.”

  “I’ll check back.” Then I remembered something. “Say, you know Frank Fernandez from Homicide?”

  “Sure, everybody at HPD does. Why?”

  “Oh, just curious. You know him well?”

  “Nestor knew him well. They were buddies. And we used to go out together—Nestor and me, and Frank and his wife. Or should I say ex-wife?”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, you want to know if I ever dated him?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “The answer is no. I told you I dated only one person since Nestor died and that ended how I told you it ended.”

  “None of my business,” I said.

  “You better get some sleep, brah. Or you’re going to have one major headache tomorrow morning.”

  “The doc gave me pain pills—but I won’t need them. I’ll be fine.”

  “Take them, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Yes, mom.”

  “Sometimes you may need a mom, Kai. But I’m not her. Just a friend telling you not to be a jerk. Take the pills or you won’t sleep a wink.”

  “Later,” I said. “You’re the best.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” she said.

  I hung up feeling good, never mind the bump on my head.

  * * *

  After talking with Maile I turned on the TV and stared blankly at a rerun of Hawaii Five-O. I didn’t feel much from
the bump on my head. It didn’t hurt, really. And I started thinking I was tough guy. I had survived a shipwreck and a whack on the head. I forgot the nurse’s instructions to take the painkillers. Suddenly I was curious to see my wound and figured it was time to change the dressing.

  I walked into the closet that passes for a bathroom in my apartment and looked in the mirror. I watched myself peel off the red-soaked gauze and looked in the mirror at the back of my head. The doc had shaved my hair just above the neckline. And there it was—a red, crusty mess, right out of a slasher movie. I was sure it would all look better later, after the swelling and purple went away. But right then it wasn’t too pretty. Fresh blood seeped out between the dozen or so stitches. I put on a new bandage, glad to have that mess out of my sight.

  I went back and lay in bed. A few minutes passed. Then it started. Around the wound like a mild headache. After a while it turned into a real banger. I put on an ice pack. That helped a little. But not much.

  Before long my head was really throbbing. I wasn’t such a tough guy after all. I gave in and popped a pain pill. I waited for it to take hold. Meanwhile I tried to fall asleep. But I just lay there, focused on the pain. It felt like somebody was drilling the back of my head. I kept wondering why the pill wasn’t working. After fifteen minutes—nothing. I broke down and popped another. More time went by. Finally I started to feel some relief. The throbbing in my head turned down a notch from ten to nine. Then to eight. But by nearly an hour later, the volume was down to only seven . . . maybe.

  I wanted the pain to go away. I wanted to sleep. But it wasn’t happening. My two painkillers were fighting the doc’s dozen stitches. My team was outgunned. So I lay there, waiting for a few more hours to pass so I could pop another pill.

  Unable to sleep, I switched the TV to the late news, catching the tail end of the local broadcast.

  “And, finally tonight, a mystery at the legendary Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikīkī. Hotel security and police are searching for an elderly Australian visitor who disappeared from the famous pink palace two days ago leaving his personal items in his room and an empty leather briefcase with the initials BB on it. Anyone with information about this man, who checked in under the name Abraham Scanlon, should contact the Honolulu Police Department . . .”