Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Read online

  “Our housecleaner spotted a prowler on the property not long before Kula went missing.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A slim, longhaired bloke. I told the police but, as usual, they came up with nothing.”

  “Why didn’t he steal the dog here? Why go all the way across the island to Kailua Beach?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Buckingham said. “Maybe he saw our security system and ran.”

  “Do you suspect anybody else?”

  “A few of my neighbors wouldn’t be above taking a dog to make a point. I heard Mrs. Gum, the old bat across the street, is going to sue me.”

  “What for?”

  “She claims my palms block her view.” Buckingham shook his head. “There’s more frivolous litigation in this country . . .”

  “An old lady—steal a dog?”

  “She has an axe to grind, that’s for sure.”

  “OK, I’ll interview her. Anyone else?”

  “Dr. Carreras, my neighbor down the hill. Used to be a psychiatrist. He’s complained constantly about Kula’s barking and he accuses me of damaging his bloody sports cars.”

  “How do you mean, damage his cars?”

  “Oh, he collects vintage sports cars: Jaguar, Ferrari, Porsche. I’m a Rolls man myself.” Buckingham winked. “Anyway, my swimming pool overflowed last winter and Carreras claimed the water leaked into his garage and harmed his precious heirlooms. I seriously doubt it, but he’s a miserable bloke. Drives like the devil on these mountain roads. Going to kill somebody . . .”

  “I’ll talk with him too.” I turned to Lehua. “Do you know of anyone who might want to take Kula? Or could he have just wandered off?”

  “No way,” Lehua insisted. “He always stays right with me. But after we paddled in from surfing at Flat Island that day, I turned around and he was gone. I looked everywhere.”

  “You didn’t see anyone suspicious? No car speeding away? No prints in the sand?”

  “No. He just wasn’t there . . .” She wiped away a fresh tear.

  Buckingham drew his daughter to his side and said to me softly, “Since her mother disappeared, Kula has been Lehua’s only comfort. You can imagine how difficult this is for her.”

  “I understand, sir.” I paused, then returned to my growing list of suspects. “And what about enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt you or your family?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a public man. Thousands listen to my radio program daily. Crazy people are out there, alongside the sane ones.”

  “Any threats?”

  “Of course, but not lately.” He looked away. “Nothing that could pertain to this.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced. I turned again to the girl, who seemed deeply pained about the dog.

  “I know Kula’s disappearance must be hard for you, Lehua, but it’s important that you tell me everything that happened that morning on Kailua Beach—even if it might seem unrelated to Kula.”

  Still tearful, she said, “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll leave you two to talk while I go fetch your retainer,” said Buckingham. He left the room through two elaborately carved doors.

  Standing there with the girl, who recounted in detail what she’d already told me, I still wondered why my client had hired me to search for his dog instead of his wife. I could have backed out . . . but I felt sorry for the kid. I had a dog once and lost him, so I could relate.

  “Lehua, I’m going to do everything I can to find Kula.”

  “Thank you so much!” she said.

  “I know how it feels when your dog doesn’t come home one day. I know how it feels when he never comes home.”

  She sobbed.

  “But that’s not going to happen with your dog.”

  “I’m so sad.” She leaned her tear-stained face against my chest.

  “There . . . There.” I patted her shoulder. “We’re going to make it better. I promise.”

  I was about to tell her every step I would take to find Kula, when I realized I hadn’t the foggiest idea where to start. I had never traced a missing pet before. And never thought I would. So I settled for . . .

  “By tomorrow I’ll be on Kula’s trail. You can count on it.”

  “You’ll find him,” she said, looking hopeful. “I know you will.”

  I felt almost guilty when she said that. So now I had two reasons why I couldn’t back out. The kid. And the money.

  Soon the gold dealer returned with ten crisp hundreds. I took them without a second thought.

  four

  After leaving Wonderview I crossed Tantalus Drive to the mauka, or mountain, side of the street. The cream colonial sat high on an incline and appeared to command at least a partial view of my client’s villa and grounds. Was this the home of the old lady who Buckingham said had an axe to grind? Had she been involved in a dog-napping I suspected Kula had just wandered off and was within a few blocks of Kailua Beach. But checking out the neighborhood would at least make it look like I was earning my fee.

  I climbed the steep driveway to the colonial’s door, then turned and looked back toward Buckingham’s estate. Yes, his royal palms did, in fact, block what would have otherwise been a stunning ocean view. A few chinks of blue were visible through the fronds, and beneath them a piece of my client’s sprawling grounds.

  I knocked and the door opened immediately, as if the occupant was expecting me. A rail-thin, silver-haired Chinese lady scoured me from my sandals to my sun-bleached hair. She was either very suspicious or very curious.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” I said and handed her my card. “I’m investigating the disappearance of your neighbor’s dog.” She glanced at my card. “Well . . . I’m Mrs. Gum. Maybe you heard of Gum’s?” Her eyes searched my face, as she switched to pidgin. “Was my husband’s appliance store on McCully. He wen die t’ree years ago. Now I take care dis whole place all by myself.”

  “Yeah, I know your husband’s store,” I said, switching to pidgin too. “Long time ago I buy one microwave ovah dere. Good deal. Stay working fine.” Gum’s was a humble mom-and-pop shop, which obviously hauled in oodles of cash to underwrite a home like this one on Tantalus Drive.

  Mrs. Gum’s face glowed. She was proud of her late husband’s business.

  I proceeded with my questions about the missing retriever, but she had not seen Kula lately, though she had noticed the absence of his bark that very morning. Which reminded me of another possible suspect, Dr. Carreras. I asked if her neighbor down the hill had ever complained to her about Kula. She said she hardly knew the doctor. Nor had she seen the prowler that Buckingham believed was haunting his home.

  A high-pitched car horn blasted behind us. I turned to see a ruby-colored Rolls Royce gliding down Tantalus. The sun glinted on the silver figurine perched on its long hood—the “Flying Lady.” The gigantic, glitzy machine seemed to huff: “I’m rich and powerful and could squash you like a bug!”

  The driver waved. Buckingham. I remembered him saying, “I’m a Rolls man.” As his mammoth car descended, I caught a glimpse of its vanity plate: GLD DLR.

  Mrs. Gum’s smile straightened. She nodded toward where Buckingham’s car had been and whispered, “He did ‘em.”

  “Mr. Buckingham stole his own dog?”

  “No.” Her whisper dropped a register. “He make his wife.”

  “Murdered his wife?” I tried to imagine it.

  Mrs. Gum nodded. “Da police know. Dey jus no can prove ‘em. I hear her screaming da night before she disappear. He wen kill her alright. But dey nevah going find her.”

  “You don’t much like Mr. Buckingham,” I said, beginning to think she was touched. “His palms block your view, right? That must make you mad.”

  She shrugged. Just then a dog barked somewhere, an octave too high for a big retriever.

  “If I see da dog,” she said, “I call you.” With that, she shut the door.

  I stood there, trying to wrap my brain around her accusation. If I d
idn’t have my doubts about my client before, Mrs. Gum had planted the seeds. Or was she just spreading rumors about a neighbor she hated?

  I began hiking down her driveway. When I glanced back, I saw the curtains part in an upstairs window and a face staring down at me. From where I stood, it was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Despite what she told me, did the widow share her home with someone?

  Or was I just imagining this, trying to turn the runaway dog into a real case?

  five

  Driving down the hill I spotted that south swell in Waikīkī I’d seen from Buckingham’s living room. But I should have been watching my rear view mirror. Closing in on me from behind—too fast—was a yellow car. I could hear its motor revving. The car grew larger and larger in my mirror—on a collision course with my Impala. I stomped the accelerator, but before my V8 responded, the car—an older Porsche—swerved around me, tires squealing, and flew by.

  “Maniac!” I yelled out the window as the Porsche passed at breakneck speed. All I could see of the driver was his silver hair.

  I kept my foot on the pedal, trying to catch him. It would have been hopeless if the driver hadn’t cut a ninety-degree turn into a side street and disappeared. When I reached the street I turned in too.

  Down at the end of the short block the Porsche was parked in front of a four-car garage attached to a posh house nestled against the slope of Tantalus. In the open bays of the garage were three other vintage sports cars: a Jaguar in British racing green, a flame-red Ferrari, and a sapphire Morgan. The three were parked in perfect parallel formation, facing the open doors. Ready to roar. The Porsche’s back hatch was open and the silver-haired driver walked toward it holding a wrench.

  “You almost hit me back there!” I said as I got out of my car, wondering if he would hurl his wrench at me. Heat vapor rose from the back of the Porsche. The insignia on the engine hatch said 911S.

  “Truly sorry,” he said, placing his tool over his heart in a gesture of apology. He was a wiry man with an olive complexion and steel-gray mustache. “I just replaced the six carbs and they’re giving me fits. These early air-cooled nine-elevens can be a bear to tune.”

  “Maybe you should save your testing for the track,” I said. “Tantalus’ hairpin turns aren’t meant for speed.”

  “O‘ahu’s track closed,” he said. “It was the only one on the island, and now it’s gone. While politicians and racers argue about it, I make do. Anyway, I never drive beyond my abilities, or what conditions allow.”

  Having just seen him in action, I wondered.

  “Max Carreras.” He smiled and offered his hand. “I am sorry, honestly.”

  “Dr. Carreras?” I asked. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’m Kai Cooke.” I handed him my card. Then I mentioned my client.

  “You work for him?” Dr. Carreras said. “I might have to change my favorable impression of you.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. Then I broached the subject of Buckingham’s leaking swimming pool.

  “Leak?” Dr. Carreras’s olive complexion darkened, his gray mustache twitched. “Buckingham’s pool flooded my garage. And the water carried a chemical that attacked the tires and wheels of my cars.”

  “Really?”

  “See that E-type?” He pointed to the low-slung green Jag in one of the bays. “The tires molded and the wire wheels started to pit. It took a helluva lot of work, I’ll tell you, to bring them back.”

  “But you did, sir. They look beautiful—like brand new.” I wasn’t just saying that. They did look like new.

  “To replace them with factory originals would have cost a small fortune. Buckingham nearly ruined all four tires and rims, and the rubber on my Porsche too.” He paused. “So are you investigating the damage to my cars?”

  “No, sir, I’m here about his dog. You complained to Mr. Buckingham about Kula barking?”

  “Yes, I complained. And Buckingham did nothing. But since when did they start sending out PIs to deal with barking dogs?”

  “The golden retriever is missing, sir, and I wondered—”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “Well, I take it you don’t care much for Kula?” I answered with a question of my own.

  Dr. Carreras glanced at the heat vapor still rising from his Porsche. “The dog’s a barker, but his master’s the real problem.”

  “You and Mr. Buckingham don’t get along?” I tried to keep him talking.

  The doctor glanced up. “I’ve studied his type, Kai, my friend. Barry Buckingham is a phony. His business is built on empty promises and his hilltop mansion is mortgaged to the hilt. He’s a fake.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Take my advice,” he said. “Collect your pay before he goes under.”

  “But—”

  “Maybe we can continue this conversation later.” The doctor bent down and began adjusting his new carburetors. “I could go on about Buckingham, but I’ve got to fit in another test drive before the rain comes.”

  “How about tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Sure. But after you hear me out you won’t want to work for him.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” I said. “Until tomorrow—drive safely.”

  “I never drive beyond my abilities,” he said again. “Sorry if I gave you a scare, Kai.”

  “All in a day’s work.” I walked back to my car.

  six

  I pulled away from Dr. Carreras’ four-bay garage with one thing on my mind—the surf. Turning onto Tantalus Drive I was surprised to see a gray cloud forming at the summit of the mountain. Was this the storm the doctor had predicted?

  Leaving his stable of shining steeds behind, I couldn’t help wondering about Dr. Carreras. While he appeared to take risks behind the wheel, I doubted he would be quite so reckless in other aspects of his life. A rich doctor had too much to lose if he got caught stealing a dog. Even if he was retired. Besides I found myself actually liking the man. Never mind he almost ran me off the road. I looked forward to talking to him the next day about my new client.

  The doctor calling Buckingham a fake, right after Mrs. Gum’s accusation of murder, shook my already shaky confidence in him. I needed time to think.

  Surfing usually gives me what I need. When I’m out in the waves, my cares seem to drift away. What’s back on shore can’t touch me. I feel free. My head clears and I see things in a new way. That’s how surfing helps me solve cases. Sherlock Holmes had his pipe—I have my surfboard.

  * * *

  Cunha’s is a rare outside break—meaning the waves break far offshore—a few hundred yards out from the Kapahulu Avenue jetty and Prince Kūhio Beach Park in Waikīkī. The name of the surfing spot comes from an estate on the beach in the early 1900s owned by Emanuel Sylvester Cunha. Legend has it that Cunha built so close to the water that surf hitting the seawall splashed onto his lānai. It takes a large south swell to produce a rideable wave at Cunha’s. Generally this only happens when summer storms kick up in the South Pacific. And even then, when Cunha’s does break, you might wait half an hour for a ride.

  But the wait is worth it. When you ride one of these sweeping rollers, you feel on top of the world. And while the long stretch between sets keeps the crowds down, it also allows plenty of time for reflective types to solve the world’s problems and for a detective to sort out the details of his cases.

  Cunha’s surfers are patient surfers. Patience was what I needed. I, who know next to nothing about locating missing pets, had taken a case to find one. And I had taken it from a client about whom I had my doubts. I wasn’t ready to buy into all the suspicions surrounding Buckingham, but I did wonder what I’d got myself into. So I paddled into the lineup and waited for a wave and an inspiration.

  At Cunha’s, waves form slowly and you must paddle hard to catch them. But once you’re on, the tempo quickens and the curl turns sheer. I watched and waited for several minutes. Then I got lucky.

  Out on the horizon a swell was coming. It
looked like only a ripple in the distance, but as it approached it grew larger. Soon I could see several waves forming. I started paddling well before the first wave in the set peaked. By the time it caught up with me, I was moving as fast as it was. I dropped in. The wave suddenly jacked up and I shot down the green wall, cutting a foamy trail behind me. Ho, brah!

  After carving my last turn, I paddled back into the lineup hooting and smiling—but still waiting for that inspiration. I took several more rides to get it.

  * * *

  After surfing I called Buckingham and gave him an edited version of my interviews with his two neighbors. I didn’t tell him about Mrs. Gum’s accusation, but I did hint at Dr. Carreras’s less than flattering remarks.

  “Carreras?” Buckingham groused. “For a psychiatrist, he’s a bloody poor judge of character.”

  I hoped my client was right.

  seven

  That night I had dinner with my attorney friend, Tommy Woo. Tommy, thanks to Cunha’s, was my inspiration.

  Tommy Woo had two cats, both strays, that had wandered into his life—a tabby who he claimed liked listening to Miles Davis, and a rag doll who preferred Charlie Parker. That’s what he called them: Miles and Charlie, even though the rag doll was a girl. Tommy, who lived alone after two nasty divorces, had been smitten. Then one day Miles disappeared and Tommy was beside himself. He searched for days. Finally he stopped mentioning the tabby. Had he found him? And, if so, how?

  When I arrived a little before seven at the dinky chop suey house on River Street, Ah Fook was packed. I put my name in for a party of two, joined the line outside, and waited for Tommy.

  Ah Fook reeked with the ambience of this notorious backwater of Chinatown, where gamblers, smugglers, pimps, murderers, and thieves once plied their trades, and where legendary HPD Detective Chang Apana—prototype for the fictional Charlie Chan—hauled them in with his whip.