Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 5

  “Why would anybody steal a dog?” Noe asked.

  I could have given her a list of reasons, but I just shrugged. The reasons wouldn’t have answered her question anyway, which was more like, “What would possess a person to do something like that?” For that question I really had no answer.

  Soon I was giving the kids directions. “Tiffy, you take the posters.” I handed her about a dozen. “Noe, here’s the staple gun.” I gave her the heavy chrome gun.

  “What do I do?” Ronson asked.

  “The most important job. You watch for traffic while they put up the posters.” Then I reassured him. “Don’t worry. You’re going to take turns with the jobs.”

  At each pole Tiffy popped out with a poster and Noe with the staple gun. Ronson guarded by watching and directing traffic. After a dozen poles, as promised, the kids changed roles. Between stops they entertained me with stories of pet misadventures—like the time Tiffy had to climb a mango tree to get her parakeet.

  By the end of three hours, we’d covered the entire Lanikai loop, all side streets dog-walkers would use to get to the beach, and also parts of Kailua town near the water. My helpers got home before dinner and walked away with fifteen dollars each, all promising to keep an eye out for Kula.

  After I dropped off the last of the three, Noe’s question was still ringing in my ears: Why would anybody steal a dog?

  twelve

  Back at Kailua Beach Park, I removed my board from the racks, slipped off my khakis from over my board shorts, and paddled out to Flat Island. My plan was to unwind and work the case at the same time. Regulars out there might know something about Kula. And by waiting for the after-work crowd I hoped to catch some of the same surfers who were likely to be there weekends—the time that the golden retriever had disappeared.

  My young helpers’ happy stories about their pets got me thinking about when I had a dog. Pono was a shepherd-golden mix, a light-colored poi dog that looked a little like Kula. Except Pono’s ears kind of half stood up like a shepherd’s and half flopped over like a retriever’s, in a homely, adorable way. He and I were inseparable. Until I lost him.

  As I stroked toward the coral island a quarter mile off shore, its unusual shape came into view. A few acres long, the oblong island resembled a green tabletop, barely above the high tide mark. It was a bird sanctuary where you can watch pairs of seabirds nesting in pukas, or holes, in the coral. But most people come for the surf, rather than for the birds. On a good day, waves sweep around the south side of the island like a point break. You ride the wave to your left, steering clear of the rocks and coral heads in the shallow water near the island.

  The trade winds gently drifted by as I paddled out. The water in the lee of the island was like glass and I could see the rocky bottom clearly. A half dozen surfers were having fun with a three-foot swell. I paddled into the lineup and caught a wave, riding left with my back to the curl, like any “regular foot” does. Then I paddled back and waited for another. I sat on my board, dangling my toes in the water. Lucky you live Hawai‘i, as the saying goes.

  One surf buddy of mine calls Flat Island a shark pit. But I’ve never seen a shark here. And I haven’t heard of anyone getting bitten. But I found myself scouring the ocean for a dark shape. The semi-circle of welts on my chest always reminded me of the time I got hit at Laniākea.

  It happened so fast I didn’t see it coming. A tiger shark. Fortunately he didn’t like the taste of me. He took one bite and swam off. There was lots of blood in the water, but nothing broken except my skin. I paddled in under my own power, with an escort of surfers who couldn’t believe their eyes. The EMS guys gave me a ride to Kahuku Hospital. I got lucky. I didn’t even stay overnight. But ever since then whenever I go surfing I say a mantra, “No Fear, No Fear,” and I try to forget.

  Of the dozen or so surfers at Flat Island that afternoon, I found only one who’d actually been in the water on Sunday when Kula disappeared. A deeply-tanned Rastafarian dude named Dickie. But the dreadlocked surfer could tell me nothing new.

  Dickie and I sat in the lineup together and eventually I caught a wave with him, giving him the sweetest part of the curl. After that ride he pointed toward shore, waved, and started paddling in. As he was stroking away, he cocked his head back and said, “You betta go talk wit’ Moku.”

  “What’s his numbah?”

  “Doan know, brah.”

  I shouted mine to him across the water. “Tell Moku for call me, yeah?”

  “Latahs.” Dickie was soon out of earshot.

  When I paddled in later, a yellow helicopter buzzed me on its way to Flat Island. On its belly was FIRE AND RESCUE. It circled the island and then hovered over the lineup, whipping whitecaps where surfers were sitting on their boards. I wondered what was up.

  Once on shore I spotted two HPD cruisers, blue lights flashing. Down in the swimming area at Kailua Beach Park, no one was in the water. Guys in trunks and girls in bikinis were standing on shore, staring out to sea. Another surfer who had been at Flat Island said, “Did you see the shark?”

  “What shark?”

  “Tiger. Ten foot. Swimming toward Flat Island.”

  Shark Pit. Had my buddy been right?

  I looked on the beach for Dickie. He was gone. I doubted I would ever hear from him or his friend Moku. Shouting my phone number across the water had been a long shot.

  But so far, long shots were all I had.

  thirteen

  On the way back from Kailua, I swung by Maile’s cottage to feed her cats. It should have been easy.

  Peppah, the dusty black Angora, pounced on me the minute I walked in the door, meowing and clawing his way up my leg. Coconut, the Siamese, stretched casually on the sofa. The calico, Lolo, gave me one look and ripped into a bedroom.

  After I fixed their food and set out three dishes—each inscribed with a name in calligraphy—Peppah and Coconut came running, but not Lolo. I went looking. I ended up in Maile’s bedroom, her parents’ bedroom when we were kids, finally spotting Lolo under the poster bed. “Auwē!” I said under my breath—the pidgin equivalent of dammit.

  Once I left Maile’s cottage, Peppah or Coconut or both would devour Lolo’s dinner. The shy cat would go hungry. I couldn’t have that on my conscience. So down on my knees I went, wondering how I’d got this gig.

  “Come out, Lolo,” I urged her. “Come out girl.”

  She retreated farther. I checked my watch. I had a dinner date at six.

  Only one solution: I slipped her food dish under the bed. It went in easily for about a foot, then it hit something. I leaned down and saw an object—flat and slightly smaller than a shoebox lid. I moved it to the side and inched Lolo’s food dish toward her.

  When I leaned back on my heels, the object caught the light. I pulled it out. It was a picture frame holding a photo of Maile and her late husband Nestor standing arm-in-arm at the Koko Head firing range. The day was sunny and Nestor had his shirt off. He was a well-built man, his body and arms packed with muscle. Maile was all smiles. Between them was propped the same sniper rifle from the photo in her living room. A day on the range.

  Seeing the two of them so happy together gave me a sinking feeling. First Karl, then Nester. Why did it still bother me that I wanted Maile once and couldn’t have her? High school was years ago. Was I feeling something for Maile again? I nudged the photo back beneath the bed, curious why she kept it there. But not before looking at it one more time.

  It must have been tough for Maile when Nestor died. And tough again when Rusty disappeared. It was all too familiar. I had Pono when my parents died. My Auntie Mae Kealoha told me that my mother and father had gone to heaven and that I mustn’t worry about them because they were in a wonderful place, more wonderful than I could ever imagine. My father’s rented airplane had crashed into cloud-shrouded Mauna Kea on the Big Island, the tallest mountain in the Pacific. Auntie Mae explained that I would never see him or my mother again in this life, but if I was a good boy and lived a
good life I would see them in the next. My father, mother, and I would all live happily together for eternity.

  That sounded good to my eight-year-old ears. But the eternal happiness didn’t seem quite complete, so I asked, “What about Pono? Will he live with us in Heaven, too?”

  She hardly skipped a beat. “Is Pono a good dog?”

  “He’s a very good dog,” I said proudly.

  Auntie tried to smile through her tears. “Yes, Pono will live with you forever.”

  I was relieved. Until I grew older and realized how long I’d have to wait for that promised bliss.

  Under the poster bed, Lolo finally started to nibble on her dinner. Safe for me to go.

  * * *

  I drove from Maile’s cottage to my studio apartment at the Waikīkī Edgewater to shower off from my session at Flat Island. “Edgewater” is kind of a stretch, since the building sits nearly half a mile from the beach. But the Edgewater does in fact flank the Ala Wai Canal. My own tiny flat on the forty-fifth floor is wedged between two penthouses and faces the airport and Pearl Harbor. It’s the less glamorous view compared to the view of Diamond Head, in the opposite direction. But on a clear day I can pick out Ford Island, the Arizona Memorial, and the Mighty Mo. And beyond them, the majestic Waianae Range.

  I hopped into my tiny shower, about the size of a coffin standing on its head. My bathroom and the entire apartment, for that matter, are not much bigger than a walk-in closet and resemble a discount Waikīkī hotel room, with bath and kitchenette at one end, and lānai, or patio, at the other. Against one wall are a double bed and nightstand with the photo of a former girlfriend. Against the other, a color TV on top of a dresser. Above that hangs a photo of my mom and dad. Next to them a surf poster. And that’s it.

  Before leaving for dinner I checked my messages. I was surprised to find one from Maile. She had arrived in Salt Lake City and driven to the pet refuge. She was looking forward to the four-day workshop on animal sanctuaries that began the next morning. She thanked me again for giving her a ride to the airport and feeding her cats. She even thanked me in advance for meeting her plane on Saturday.

  “I’m looking forward to catching up with you, Kai . . .” She paused. “It’s been too long.”

  It had.

  Then she said, “If it turns out Kula didn’t just wander off, if it turns out he was stolen, watch yourself. Pet thieves are a twisted lot. A dog is just a pawn to them. They’re usually after something else—to gain advantage over someone or something. I’ve run into cases like that, where the dog’s master owes money or has a vindictive ex. It has nothing to do with the animal and everything to do with the people. Good luck, Kai. And watch yourself.”

  fourteen

  I had dinner that night at the posh Waikīkī Canoe Club with Madison Highcamp—Mrs. Conrad Highcamp—third wife of a wealthy hotelier whose luxury resorts dotted the globe.

  Madison commanded a prime oceanfront table on the open-air lānai. She was puffing on a cigarette, sipping a martini, and talking nonstop on her cell phone when I arrived. Her Maltese, balled into a white puff, leaped from her lap and danced around me, yipping and making a spectacle of herself.

  “Twinkie, hush!” Madison set down her phone and stood. Her dark cherry hair, pinned up in loose curls, almost tumbled down onto a beach cover-up that covered very little at all. But nobody was complaining. The former beauty queen wasn’t shy about showing herself off. She mashed out her cigarette, picked up the dog, and pressed her glossy red lips on my cheek.

  “Hello, darling.” She smelled of Chanel, tobacco, and gin. It was a provocative, come-hither blend of odors like ripe cheddar in a mousetrap. Madison Highcamp spent her days shopping designer boutiques and sunning on the beach, and her nights hanging out in private clubs and dancing at charity balls. Her Midas-touch husband was old enough to be her father, or grandfather. She lived in a sprawling Diamond Head penthouse, while he preferred their Beverly Hills mansion, closer to his corporate headquarters in Los Angeles. They were seldom together.

  I met Madison through a Canoe Club paddler who urged me to call her, saying she was lonely and enjoyed the company of surfers. “I don’t date married women,” I said. He persisted: “Spread some aloha, Kai.” Against my better judgment I called her.

  “Let’s have a drink.” She sat and planted a kiss on the Maltese’s wet noise. “Twinkie, precious!” she whispered in the dog’s ear.

  “You should get a pet, Kai. You’re alone too much. A nice dog like Twinkie might do wonders.”

  “First Tommy. Now you.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Never mind.” The cocktail waitress came so I said: “What would you like to drink?”

  “The same.” She pointed to her empty martini glass.

  “A martini for the lady,” I told the waitress. “And a beer for me.”

  As the sun sunk toward the Pacific in a riot of gold, Madison waxed eloquent. “Ah, the islands,” she said. “Is there anything like them?”

  “Lucky you live Hawai‘i,” I said.

  “Conrad hates it here,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

  “How can anyone hate Hawai‘i?”

  “Oh, I think he finds the islands lovely and all. But there’s nothing here for him. No captains of industry on the scale he’s used to. No tycoons or politicians of his stripe. No glamour of Hollywood. He prefers Beverly Hills and Palm Springs and sometimes New York.”

  “So he doesn’t ever visit you?”

  “The chances of him coming are about the same as snow falling in Waikīkī. Anyway, he knows I have friends. He’s not stupid.”

  Our drinks came.

  “Cheers,” I said.

  Madison’s midnight eyes met mine. I studied her perfect teeth and marveled at how different we were. The fortyish perfumed debutante who never worked a day in her life and the thirty-four year old surfer and P.I. who was perpetually broke. We had almost nothing in common. But in a strange way, we did. We were both adrift on this lonely planet, as Tommy called it. Why should I question our arrangement? Maybe it was Tommy’s question that was bothering me: Are you still hanging out with that Highcamp woman? He had hit a nerve. Or maybe it was seeing Maile again after all those years.

  “Kai.” Madison rested her chin on jeweled fingers. “Let’s not go so long between rendezvous. You know how I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” I heard myself saying.

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully. Her expression suddenly changed. “Conrad?” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “Oh my god!” then she removed her hand. “Surprised to hear from you, darling . . . I’m at the Canoe Club having dinner with a friend.” She reached across the table and took my hand.

  “Oh, nobody you know.” Madison winked at me. “Drinking . . . ? Just my usual martini before dinner.” She reached for another cigarette, then frowned. “You’re coming to Hawai‘i?” the cigarette rested between her fingers. “Oh, anytime you like, darling. It’s up to you . . . OK, love you too.”

  Madison’s glossy lips tightened as she snapped her phone shut. I leaned forward with a lit match. “Conrad is threatening to come here again,” she said. “Probably to check up on me.” The flame caught the tip of her cigarette as she puffed and made it glow. “He always says he’s coming, but he never does.”

  “Never?” I shook the match out.

  “Almost never.” She shrugged. “Let’s eat, honey, and not talk about Conrad.

  We called the waitress and ordered dinner—a warm cilantro and marinated quail salad for Madison and Canoe Club burger for me.

  “Why don’t you tell me all about one of your exciting cases?” Madison’s eyes glittered.

  “OK.” I fingered the condensation dripping down my beer glass. How could I admit I’d been reduced to searching for a dog? Then I thought of Twinkie, sleeping peacefully in Madison’s lap. A dog lover, maybe she would sympathize? I gave her an abridged version of
the story, hinting at, but not naming my client. She figured it out. It’s a small island.

  “Barry Buckingham, the gold dealer?” she asked.

  “You know him?”

  “Slightly,” she said evasively.

  “How’d you meet?”

  “Conrad, bless his heart, gave me a little investment money to play with—barely six figures—and I thought, why not buy some gold? After all, I love gold.” She waved her rings at me. “Anyway, the other day I was driving home from Neiman’s and heard him on the radio: ‘I’m certified gold expert Barry Buckingham, and you’re listening to Gold Standard.’ He has such a soothing voice, you know. So British.”

  “Australian, I believe.”

  “Why he just captivated me,” Madison continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “So I called him at his ‘offices,’ as he says on the radio, and we chatted. His voice was even more soothing than on the air. And then,” she took a sip of her martini, “he invited me to dinner on his yacht tomorrow night. Can you believe that?”

  I could. “Be careful,” I cautioned.

  “Don’t worry, I’m just going to listen to what he has to say.” She played with a loose curl. “Have you ever thought of investing, Kai? A nest egg for your future?”

  “No.” Madison had no idea how the other half lived.

  “Maybe you should consider gold. Barry says it’s very stable.”

  The waitress arrived with Madison’s salad and my burger. Madison stubbed out her cigarette. We had barely taken a bite when her phone rang again.

  “Hello.” She made a puzzled look. “Barry . . . ? Oh, of course. Yes, I’m looking forward. Seven? That would be fine. See you then.” She closed her phone.