Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Read online

  The savory smells of steamed clams, dim sum and Peking duck escaped as the door opened and closed, reminding me I hadn’t eaten after my session at Cunha’s. Despite run-ins with the health department and liquor commission, Ah Fook could always be counted on for a good, cheap meal. And if Tommy and I had anything in common, it was this: we were both cheap.

  Soon a waitress waved me in and seated me in a dim corner. I looked around. Still no Tommy. He was late again. I began to wonder if my inspiration had tricked me. Sure my akamai—meaning smart—attorney friend could dazzle a jury with his eloquence, wow an audience with his jazz piano, and tell off-color jokes until your face turned blue. But find a missing pet? My fingers were crossed.

  As the waitress returned with two cups and a steaming teapot, the door swung open to the familiar loose-jointed, lanky figure dressed all in black—looking like a parish priest of Chinatown. He saw me from across the room, tapped his wristwatch, and mouthed: “Broken.” We both knew he was lying. Attorney by day and a musician by night, Tommy Woo had a shaky relationship with time.

  I poured tea, we both ordered the $8.95 dinner special, and then I got right to the point: “Tommy, what do you know about finding lost dogs?”

  “Dogs?” He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses, brushed back his gray hair, and let his first joke fly. “Did you hear the one about the three-legged Dalmatian and the sexy French poodle?”

  “Many times.” I lied.

  Tommy looked stunned. He raised his brows and said nothing. A rare moment. The waitress came by and ladled egg drop soup into our bowls.

  “I asked because a friend of mine needs help finding one.” I bent the truth a little. “The dog is special. A golden retriever who rides a surfboard.”

  “What’s his name?” Tommy sipped the hot soup.

  “Kula.”

  “Not the dog,” Tommy said. “The owner.”

  “Oh . . .” I paused, savoring my own soup. “Buckingham,” I finally said.

  “Barry Buckingham, the gold dealer?” Tommy asked, his expression returning to its usual animation. “Didn’t know you knew him.”

  “I don’t, really.”

  “So it’s a case?” Tommy asked as our sweet-and-sour spare-ribs arrived. He picked up a rib and chewed on it. “Buckingham hired you to find his dog?”

  “Right.” I smothered the word in a mouthful of fried rice.

  The stage was set for another of Tommy’s doozies. He set down the rib, wiped the sauce from his lips, and placed his napkin back in his lap. “How can I help you?” he asked, without a hint of sarcasm. Sometimes Tommy surprised me.

  “I remembered you lost that cat of yours, Miles? Did you ever find him?”

  “He came home on his own,” Tommy said, brushing back his hair again. “One morning I opened the door and Miles was sleeping on my doormat.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Too bad?”

  “I mean that’s good you found him. I was just hoping you’d tell me how you found him.”

  “I got lucky. But next time I’d call Maile.”

  “I knew a Maile once,” I said. “What’s her last name?”

  “Barnes,” he said. “Maile Barnes, the pet detective.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Pet detective, huh?” Was this another one of Tommy’s jokes? “Like in an Ace Ventura movie?” I played along.

  “No, she’s for real. And she’s the best—a former K-9 cop who finds lost animals.”

  The lemon chicken arrived and Tommy helped himself then passed the plate. He filled me in on Maile Barnes. Missing pet cases and now pet detectives. I was really hitting bottom.

  “You should get a pet, Kai,” Tommy added as he worked on his chicken. “You know, a dog or cat, so you’re not alone so much.”

  “I don’t have time for pets. Plus, the Edgewater doesn’t allow them.”

  “Sneak one in.”

  “Then I’d have to feed it and walk it and pick up after it. I had a dog once, when my parents were still alive. So I know the drill.”

  Tommy adjusted his glasses and cocked his head. “We inhabit a lonely planet, Kai. Grab some comfort where you can.”

  “I do.”

  “You sure?”

  Suddenly I felt irritated. “What makes you think I’m lonely?”

  “Well . . . ” He looked into my eyes. “Are you still hanging out with that Highcamp woman?”

  I hesitated. “What if I am?”

  Tommy kept looking at me. He said nothing.

  “I gotta go.” I got up and tossed a ten on the table. I didn’t wait for my fortune cookie. It was bad enough that I’d been reduced to hunting missing animals; I didn’t need any reminder of the dismal state of my love life.

  “Phone Maile,” Tommy called after me as I reached the door. I shook my head and walked out onto River Street. What business is it of Tommy Woo who I hang out with?

  As I walked up the lamp-lit sidewalk, I cooled off a little and considered Tommy’s suggestion.

  eight

  Tuesday morning’s Star-Advertiser carried the following story in the “Hawai‘i” section:

  * * *

  Fatal Crash on Tantalus

  A 68-year old retired psychiatrist died yesterday as a result of injuries suffered in a one-car accident on Tantalus Drive at approximately 5 pm. The 1973 Porsche driven by Dr. Maxwell V. Carreras was traveling at a high rate of speed on upper Tantalus when it failed to negotiate a hairpin turn, slid down an embankment, and struck a tree. Rain-slick pavement from showers earlier in the day may have been a factor in the accident. Dr. Carreras was taken to Straub Clinic and Hospital in critical condition with head injuries and a collapsed lung. He was later pronounced dead at the hospital.

  There were no eyewitnesses to the fatal crash, but residents in the area said they heard the Porsche’s engine, screeching tires, and then the collision. One resident who wished not to be identified said she thought she heard a second car also traveling at a high rate of speed, as if racing with Dr. Carreras’ car. HPD closed off upper Tantalus Drive for several hours on Monday evening while their investigation was in progress . . .

  * * *

  The story went on, mentioning Dr. Carreras’s loved ones left behind, his former medical practice, his hobby of collecting exotic cars, and so on. I had met him for the first time only yesterday, talked briefly about his neighbor, my client, and now the doctor was dead. I may have been one of the last people to see him alive. I recalled him saying that he never drove beyond his abilities, or what conditions allowed. He sounded so sure of himself. But now I had to conclude that he had been kidding himself about his abilities, or about those sharp turns on Tantalus Drive. But I couldn’t picture him racing another motorist on that narrow mountain road.

  Dr. Carreras’s untimely death didn’t sit well with me. I had actually liked the man. And I wondered, had the doctor survived, what more he might have told me about Buckingham.

  * * *

  Later that morning I drove to Mānoa, a mist-swept valley a few miles mauka of Waikīkī that lay between two ridges in the Ko‘olau Range. I liked to hike to majestic Mānoa Falls, the deepest point in the valley, and trek along the stream that meanders from the falls and down past the Chinese cemetery to the floor below. I’d been coming to Mānoa since I was a student at Punahou, before my parents died. But today my destination was a cottage perched on a wooded slope on the eastern side of the valley, in line with the cemetery and about a mile from the falls. It was the home of pet detective Maile Barnes.

  When I pulled up to the cottage it looked vaguely familiar. I felt like I’d been here before. Déjà vu. But I couldn’t recall why or when.

  I knocked and the door opened to a youthful brown-haired woman in Nikes, running shorts, and a sports bra. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her flushed cheeks and tanned limbs. Suddenly I knew why the place looked familiar. The years had treated her kindly. She appeared to be barely thirty, but I knew exactly how old she was.

  “Maile Ohara
,” I said. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Kai,” she said. “But it’s Barnes. My name hasn’t been Ohara for years. You were away on the mainland too long.”

  “I was,” I said, “and I regret it.” She was wearing a ring, so I assumed Barnes was her married name. But it was not the name I expected.

  “What ever happened to Karl?” I asked. “Weren’t you two engaged senior year?”

  “Long story,” she said. “C’mon in, Kai, and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “I haven’t been up to much,” I said as we walked into a cozy island-style living room with rattan furniture on Oriental rugs. Open jalousies admitted a balmy breeze.

  “Actually Tommy had lots to say about you.” Maile gave me a knowing look.

  “Don’t believe a word,” I said, gazing into her almond-colored eyes, a shade darker than her hair. I remembered her eyes and her skin too—fragrant and tawny like the loam of the Hawaiian soil.

  “Tommy told me only good things,” she said. “You can fill me in on the bad.”

  Maile and I went way back, though we hadn’t seen each other since high school. We were born the same year in the same hospital—Queens—and were classmates at the same school—Punahou. I left Punahou, and later the islands, when Maile and I were in Mrs. Fegerstrom’s third grade class. During the summer before my senior year at Flintridge Prep in la Cañada, California, I returned to O‘ahu and reunited with my Punahou friends. Maile was a heartbreakingly beautiful seventeen year old then, who was dating a football star named Karl Knudson. There was still a comfortable closeness between Maile and me. I was drawn to her that summer, but Karl was never far away. She and I exchanged letters when I returned to California. We didn’t write much after she became engaged.

  “So what happened to Karl?” I asked.

  “He played football at Stanford. He’s a stockbroker in Modesto now with a wife and three kids.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him?”

  “I sent you a letter about it, but I didn’t hear back from you.”

  “What letter? I never got it.” I recalled that when I first moved to San Diego for college some of my mail got lost.

  “I told you in the letter,” Maile said. “My father got Parkinson’s disease during my senior year. He was already in his sixties then. My mother tried to take care of him alone, but she wasn’t young either. I couldn’t leave them. Karl understood. We broke it off. In hindsight, it was for the best. I’m an Island girl. Can you imagine me in Modesto?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about you, Kai? Are you married? Do you have children?”

  “No and no,” I said. “I guess I’ve been too busy.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person at the right time,” Maile said. “Timing is everything. Karl and I—” She stopped in mid-sentence.

  “But your timing must have been right later on,” I said. “Who’s the lucky Mr. Barnes?”

  “Not so lucky, I’m afraid.” Maile looked down. “Nestor was an HPD beat cop when I worked in K9. He fell in the line of duty.”

  “I had no idea.” I was mortified. “I’m sorry.”

  “You had no way of knowing.”

  “I should have. I guess I’ve been out of touch.”

  “Stop scolding yourself and tell me about your missing dog.”

  I handed her Kula’s photo. “I have to warn you—the last person I interviewed for this case died the same day.”

  Maile’s eyes lit up when she saw the photo of the sunny retriever. “He’s a beauty! What’s his name?” She didn’t ask about the dead man. A former cop, she took things in stride, I guessed.

  “Kula. He’s a famous surfing dog.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” she said. “Wasn’t he on TV?”

  I nodded. She stepped to an antique roll-top desk and returned with a handful of cards.

  MAILE BARNES

  TRACER OF MISSING PETS

  15 YEARS EXPERIENCE • K9 UNIT, H.P.D.

  “Please pass them around,” she said. “I always appreciate referrals.”

  I flipped the card over. Printed was her phone number, email address, and PO box.

  “I’ll be right back.” She walked down the hall.

  I looked around the room. Curled up on nearby rattan chairs were three contented cats. Maile soon returned in Bermudas and a tank top. She settled into a rattan loveseat opposite me and introduced her cats. “This is Coconut, a Siamese; Peppah, an Angora; and Lolo, a feral tri-color calico I’m trying to domesticate.”

  Judging from their looks, they had no cares in the world. The calico suddenly shot from the room when I reached for her.

  “Don’t mind Lolo. She’s shy.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Is she the reason you don’t have a dog?”

  “I used to—a German shepherd.” She paused. “Rusty. He got on great with the cats, but . . .” She grew silent for a moment. “So, about your golden retriever—Kula.” She uttered his name familiarly as if he were her own.

  “He belongs to a Tantalus resident named Buckingham,” I said. “Actually, he belongs to Mr. Buckingham’s wife, Cheyenne Sin. She’s missing too.”

  “Your client seems to be having a string of bad luck,” Maile said.

  “Yeah, so is his neighbor,” I replied, thinking of Dr. Carreras. I shook my head. “Frankly, I don’t know where to start. Then again, this is my first pet case. That’s why I came to you.”

  Maile held Kula’s photo close and studied it. “When I lost Rusty last year I searched all over O‘ahu. I would have found him if he were here. But I believe he was stolen and shipped off the island. It happens—more than you’d think.”

  “My client is convinced his dog was stolen.”

  Maile put her hands together as if in prayer. Her almond eyes rested on me. “I’d like to help you, Kai, but I’m leaving tonight for a pet refuge workshop in Utah. I won’t be back until Sunday. You can’t wait that long. Every day Kula is missing decreases the chances he’ll be found.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. She saw my discouraged look.

  “Tell you what,” Maile said, “I’ll give you a crash course in pet detection. Do you have the time now?”

  “I’ll make the time.”

  “Good.” She stood up and disappeared again, this time into her galley-like kitchen.

  Left alone, I scanned a gallery of photos on the far wall of the room: Her late husband in uniform, a dark and handsome local man; Maile in police blues holding a rifle and a medal inscribed “Expert”; several photos of a rust and black German shepherd.

  Maile returned with two tall glasses of iced tea and a plate of cookies. I sipped the mint tea and bit in to a chewy cookie whose sweet, tropical aroma reminded me of my mother. “Mmmmmm . . .”

  “Coconut,” Maile said. “For old time’s sake. When Tommy said you were coming . . .” She trailed off, seeming embarrassed.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Your husband was a handsome man.” I pointed to his photo on the wall. “And I noticed one of you with a marksmanship medal.”

  She glanced over at the photos. “Nestor liked to target shoot and I tagged along. I have good eyes and a steady hand. Straight shooting came easy. In fact, the department once offered to reassign me from the K-9 unit to the SWAT team. But I didn’t want to leave my dogs. Anyway,” she glanced down, “that’s all in the past.”

  “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  Maile looked up again. “Thank you, Kai. Now let’s talk about your missing retriever . . .”

  nine

  “When a pet disappears,” Maile explained, “every minute it wanders, its life is ticking away. The chances of it being hit by a car or euthanized in an animal shelter are high. That’s why you have to work fast.”

  “Even if Kula was stolen?” I took another sip of mint tea.

  “The sooner you’re on his trail, the better. A beautiful purebred like Kula, eve
n without papers, could bring top dollar. In Hawai‘i, dogs are stolen for various reasons: resale, breeding, hunting, fighting. Fortunately, a golden retriever is not the kind of dog people here eat.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Growing up in the islands I’d heard stories about poi dogs, or mixed breeds, being eaten by certain groups. But it was hard to imagine anyone making a meal of such an expensive canine as Kula. And I’d given little thought to the fact that dogs were stolen for other purposes. I’d known people are kidnapped and possessions get stolen, but I never considered that anyone might filch the family pet. Maile had my attention.

  “Theft by a puppy mill,” she went on, “is a definite possibility. Kula would be a gold mine as a stud dog.” She paused. “I fully believe there’s an organized pet theft ring in the islands—some people discount it, but there’s plenty of evidence.”

  “So you’re telling me there’s enough money to be made from walking off with man’s best friend to encourage organized crime?” I must not have kept the doubt out of my voice, for she sounded slightly defensive when she replied.

  “Small-time, maybe,” she said, “but organized all the same.” From beneath the rattan coffee table she drew a scrapbook. “I started collecting these clippings after Rusty disappeared.”

  “We have the same hobby,” I said.

  She looked at me funny.

  “Clippings,” I said. “Mine are about big-wave wipeouts and shark attacks.”

  She opened her book to a random page. “Here.”

  * * *

  KAILUA DOG THEFTS REPORTED

  Kailua residents are reporting that someone is stealing expensive, purebred dogs from their homes. “Six dogs were reported stolen in the past two months,” said Charlene Nogata, manager of Windward Pets in Kailua. “One dog was apparently stolen from a kennel in a front yard,” she added. Police have received numerous complaints about missing dogs in Kailua, and are looking into them. Nogata became alarmed when several dog owners visited her store and asked her to watch for anyone selling their pets. Stolen were a pair of Labrador puppies, a Jack Russell terrier, an Airedale, and two golden retrievers, dogs that can fetch $500 each, without registration papers. The store manager commented: “I’ve heard of individual owners losing their dogs, but never so many at once.”