Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 7

  “I bring da dog. You bring da t’ousand.

  seventeen

  I called Buckingham and asked if I could see him. About to begin his daily radio program, he suggested we meet later at his yacht club for a dinner sail. I agreed to meet, but declined the sail and the dinner, saying I had to follow a lead that night that might shed light on Kula’s disappearance. I also wanted to avoid running into Madison, who I knew was on the guest list.

  “Good on ya, mate!” Buckingham replied in his Australian lingo. “That’s the best possible regret. Tell me more.”

  “I’ll fill you in when I see you,” I said. “I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”

  “No worries,” he said.

  “Say, too bad about your neighbor,” I said, referring to Dr. Carreras. “But I gather you didn’t like him much.”

  “Dreadful news,” Buckingham said. “I didn’t care for the man, but I certainly didn’t want him dead.” My client said this in a curious way, leaving the impression that if he’d wanted the doctor dead, he would have made it happen.

  On my way to the yacht club I stopped at Maile’s cottage to feed her cats. An instant replay of the night before. Peppah clawed his way up my pants leg, Coconut flaked out on the sofa, and Lolo hotfooted it into Maile’s bedroom.

  I brought Lolo’s food to the bedroom and got down on my knees.

  “Come out, girl.” I looked under the bed frame. Nothing. I peered into the darkness for some sign of movement. “Lolo?”

  Nothing. Then I noticed Maile’s closet door was ajar. I crossed the room and pushed it open further. “Come out girl. I’ve got places to go.”

  The closet was dark and smelled of mold. If Lolo was in there, I couldn’t see her. Then at the edge of the closet I noticed a long, round object leaning against the doorframe. I had no business snooping in the closet of my old friend, but being nosy is an occupational hazard. I reached in and pulled it out. Maile’s rifle. The Remington was a serious tactical weapon—bolt action, carbon-fiber stock, stainless steel barrel, and a scope. On impulse, I sighted through the scope. Maile’s bed looked huge in its crisp crosshairs. The precision was awesome.

  I knew precision when I saw it because I’d fired more weapons than the average person. After I surfed myself out of college in my freshman year, against my Uncle Orson’s advice I joined the army. He paid big bucks to send me to Flintridge Prep and to Point Loma College, so he was disappointed. But even though Point Loma had three of the best surf spots in San Diego—Garbage, Ab, and New Break—I found out fast that academic life wasn’t for me. So when a recruiter dangled a cushy job back home at Fort DeRussy in Waikīkī in front of me, I bit.

  It didn’t happen. I was never stationed in Waikīkī. I went to Fort Ord in Monterey, which closed a few years after I left, and trained for the infantry. Handguns, automatic rifles, grenade launchers, machine guns, wire-guided missiles. You name it, I shot it. I’m not a gun guy, and I think the world would be a better place without them, but circumstances have forced me to become familiar with a wide variety. Later when I became a PI, in order to register my .357 I took a course in which I shot Glocks, Sigs, Berretas, and Smith & Wessons—handguns used by law enforcement and the military. This, plus my infantry experience, is why I know more about firearms than the average person, and why I could appreciate the Remington.

  I returned the weapon to Maile’s closet and wondered how long it had been since she had fired it. Then I scolded myself for poking around in her things. She had trusted me, as an old friend, with her cats and her cottage, and here I was violating that trust. And getting closer to her, despite my resolve not to.

  “OK, Lolo. Here’s your food.” I set the dish by the open closet and turned to leave. The timid cat was going to have to fend for herself.

  * * *

  The Ala Moana Yacht Club hugged the Diamond Head end of the beach park and Ala Wai Harbor. I wandered the posh facilities looking for Buckingham. First I tried the clubhouse that sat smack on the harbor. My client wasn’t in the waterfront bar or the koa-paneled dining room or the lava rock swimming pool. Then I headed out to the boat slips.

  Buckingham’s yacht wasn’t hard to find. It was taller and longer than any sailing vessel I could see. And on its stern in fancy letters was the name:

  Golden Hinde

  HONOLULU

  I craned my neck to follow its mast up to the sky, and had to grab a handrail to steady myself. I wondered how many mom-and-pop Hawai‘i investors it took to pay the gold dealer’s yacht club dues and to stock his boat with caviar and champagne.

  “Kai Cooke!” Buckingham waved me onto the spotless deck, then offered his meaty right hand. I almost cut myself on his diamond ring. We sat on cushioned seats in the cockpit as two twenty-something guys in white shorts and polo shirts busily checked rigging and sails. Buckingham told me that he and his wife had sailed single-handedly from Bora Bora to Honolulu. Now with only his daughter’s help, and state-of-the-art electronics and auto pilot, he claimed he could still navigate to any number of remote Pacific islands. And when the trade winds went slack, a Cummins turbo diesel kept her chugging at ten knots per hour—plus.

  “Nice boat,” I said to get the conversation rolling. “With a fitting name.”

  “The Golden Hinde was commanded by Sir Francis Drake,” Buckingham replied, “a fearless explorer who circumnavigated the globe for his country and queen.”

  “Why do I remember Drake as a pirate?” I said, recalling AP history at Flintridge Prep. “Didn’t he pillage and plunder along the way?”

  “Nonsense. Your American schoolbooks gave you a distorted view of history. Drake was a great man.”

  I said, “Yes, sir,” and let it go.

  Buckingham then reminisced about the exotic South Pacific. “Now Bora Bora,” he said, “that’s what Hawai‘i used to be—but is no more. Paradise.”

  I nodded politely and then updated him on my efforts to find Kula, mentioning the lead I was following that night. “A Waimānalo man named Moku claims to have Kula,” I said. “I thought you should know, sir.”

  “Too right!” Buckingham hauled out his Aussie talk again and embraced his daughter who had come up from below and sat next to him. It was the first time I had seen her smile.

  “I’m not sure how right, sir.” I straightened in my seat. “This Moku asked me to bring the entire reward to a dead-end road in the valley at night.”

  “Don’t trust the bloke?”

  “Not sure.” I gave my client the particulars of the phone call and of the plan for the meeting. Buckingham listened attentively.

  “I doubt Moku will bring Kula tonight,” I added. “But he may know something about his disappearance. All I can do is go see what happens.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Buckingham replied. “You could be in danger.”

  “That’s very generous, but he insisted I come alone.” I tried to reassure him. “I’m experienced enough with these kinds of meetings to not put myself at risk. If I didn’t think I could walk out alive, I wouldn’t walk in.”

  “Be careful, then.” He looked genuinely concerned.

  “I will, sir. As I mentioned, the man wants the thousand-dollar reward up front in cash.”

  “Do you want it now?” Buckingham reached for his wallet.

  “Uh, no . . .” I should have known he’d have that much cash on him. “I’d rather not carry it with me tonight . . . until I check out the lead.”

  “No worries. Ring me on my mobile.”

  One of the guys in white shorts signaled Buckingham that the Golden Hinde was ready to go.

  “Sure you won’t join us for a sunset sail, Mr. Cooke?” he asked. “We’re waiting on one guest and then we’re off.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got my appointment tonight. I’ll call you with any news.”

  As I stepped from the boat, I noticed a lifeguard surfboard with a red cross on it and the word RESCUE. As big as a tandem board with two pair of handles on the rails, it was mou
nted on the dock across from Buckingham’s slip. Seeing that word made me wish I had some sort of backup that night—but not Barry Buckingham. I was wary of him as a client, let alone as a partner to cover my back.

  When I pulled away from the yacht club I saw Madison’s lexus convertible whiz by in a gold blur. Her fingers were tapping the glowing ash of a cigarette into the wind. She didn’t notice me. When I glanced back, her taillights were disappearing behind the club’s automatic gate marked: MEMBERS ONLY.

  eighteen

  Waimānalo is a sleepy seaside town in windward O‘ahu, sandwiched between Kailua to the north and Makapu‘u Point to the south. Kapu Road winds deep into an isolated valley behind the town. Kapu means “forbidden” in Hawaiian and it’s no place you’d want to meet a stranger on a dark night. Especially a stranger who expects you to be carrying a thousand bucks.

  Waimānalo’s tiny business district fills barely two blocks along narrow Kalaniana‘ole Highway. At night there isn’t much to see. Ken’s In & Out Plate Lunch was closed. So were Shima’s Market, Waimānalo Feed Supply, Kuni’s Auto & Towing, and Glenn’s Nursery. But the lights were still on at Jack in the Box and the Waimānalo 76. And in the distance the jagged ridgeline of the Ko‘olau mountains, jutting a thousand feet from the valley floor, was backlit by the lights of Honolulu. In their foothills I hoped to find a clue about the missing dog.

  At the one and only traffic light in Waimānalo’s commercial hub, I swung a sharp right onto Kapu Road and headed into the valley. An occasional streetlamp poured a pool of light onto the black pavement. But most of the landscape was shrouded in darkness under the moonless sky. The eerie glow of city lights above the Ko‘olau range only served to deepen that darkness.

  I reached over and touched my surfboard, the nine-six’s duckbill nose resting comfortably on the Impala’s padded dash. The board, for some reason, reassured me . . . made me feel confident I would live to surf tomorrow. For safety’s sake, I’d brought only one hundred and change from my client’s retainer. If Moku had information to offer, he’d have to settle for that for now. And if he actually had the dog, a quick call to Buckingham could produce the full reward.

  Soon the pavement ended and I started kicking up dust, driving the dirt road until it stopped at a barrier. My headlights illuminated a bullet-riddled sign: DEAD END. Beyond the sign lay a small clearing among the trees. I turned my car around facing back toward the village. When I switched off my headlights, the scene faded to black.

  I checked my watch: 10:54.

  The high-pitched hum of crickets added to the eerie atmosphere. Eleven came and went. I got out of my car and, with the penlight on my keychain, felt my way with my feet to the clearing. But there was nothing to see, even if I could have seen better.

  Suddenly behind the DEAD END sign I heard rustling. I pulled my .357 magnum from the right front pocket of my khakis and stepped beyond the barrier. No, I don’t have a license to carry a concealed weapon. But sometimes, when the situation calls for it, I do what I have to do. The sound led back into the underbrush. Probably a mongoose skittering across dry leaves. Then I heard a vehicle rattle up to the dead end and stop. Doors opened and slammed shut. Voices sounded and then I heard the shuffle of feet.

  As I crept back toward my car, I saw what looked like an old Honda with its lights on, pulled up beside mine. I could barely make out the two large men who were lifting my surfboard out of my car, and a third, the largest of the three, rifling through my glove compartment. I pointed my gun at them and stepped into the headlights’ glare.

  “Put the board back.”

  The men halted then slowly began pushing the board back into my car.

  “And get your hands out of that glove compartment,” I said. “Which one of you is Moku?”

  “Me, brah,” said the biggest one.

  “You nevah come alone, Moku—like you tol’ me. An’ I no can see da dog.”

  “I goin’ get da dog. You get da money?”

  “Firs’ da dog.” I kept the .357 pointed at them.

  “I get ‘em fo’ you, brah,” Moku said. “Five hundert now, five hundert wen I get ‘em.”

  “Nah, I pay in full when you delivah. How I know you got da dog? Or dat you geev’ ‘em to me?”

  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a dog collar. “Is his.”

  “Les see ‘em.”

  “Five hundert, brah.”

  “No way. I geev’ fifty, if fo’ real.”

  “One hundert,” he said. “Or no collah an’ no dog.”

  I pulled five twenties from my wallet and pointed to an imaginary spot in front of me. “Drop ‘em hea.”

  Moku walked up. His dark eyes studied me. Around his neck hung a shark tooth on a black cord. He got close enough that I could see an M etched on the tooth in scrimshaw. So M is for Moku? I almost said. He held out the collar. It was tanned and stitched leather and had gold-embossed letters that said KULA.

  The real thing? I had to believe it. This crew didn’t strike me as smart enough to make a fake of this quality.

  “Try drop ‘em.” I pointed to the ground with the revolver. “Den take da money.”

  Moku did as I said and then walked back to his friends. He seemed used to doing business at gunpoint.

  “Now you bring da dog,” I said.

  “Latahs.” Moku kept walking. His friends followed him to their car. Not one of them looked back as the old Honda started with a plume of smoke and sped away.

  nineteen

  Friday morning I was looking into the accusing eyes of homicide Detective Frank Fernandez. Moku taliaferro was dead. His shark’s tooth necklace was missing. And I was suspect number one.

  I had no alibi. I had pulled a gun on Moku. The case of the missing dog was turning grim.

  “Whose dog is it?” Fernandez asked, impatience in his gravelly voice.

  “That’s confidential—you know that. Besides, what do you care? It’s a dog, Frank.”

  He scowled.

  “What about Moku’s pals?” I said. “One or both of them could have killed him for the hundred bucks I handed over.”

  Fernandez looked incredulous. “Murder—for a hundred bucks? Anyway, they both have alibis.”

  “Maybe they’re lying.”

  “Maybe.” His eyes hardened. “Maybe you are, too.”

  “C’mon, Frank.”

  “Tell me your client’s name.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then next time we’ll be talking in my office,” he said. “If I didn’t know you we’d be there now.”

  My door had not yet closed behind Fernandez when I began to wonder why I was risking a murder rap to protect a client whose character—and wallet—was suspect. But I believed in client confidentiality. Should it disappear just because I questioned a man’s integrity or his ability to pay?

  My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Surfing Detective,” I answered.

  “If you like fine dat missing dog,” whispered a female voice, “try go look in Lanikai. Address is one-o-seven Mokulama. Da druggies dere steal any kine, even one dog. Spock fo’ yo’self.” She hung up.

  I checked the phone—she had blocked her caller ID. I had to keep following every lead, even the questionable ones. The case wasn’t just about a missing dog anymore.

  Before leaving I called Lou, the Mililani puppy mill owner who had promised me a male blond golden retriever. He sounded too much like Kula to ignore. Was the dog for real? Lou’s phone rang. No answer. No machine.

  * * *

  Soon I found myself driving over the Pali again. From Kailua Beach Park I took meandering ‘A‘alapapa Drive, along the backdrop of the sheer Ka‘iwa Ridge, into the beachside enclave of Lanikai. Only a few days ago I had plastered five hundred posters along this drive. But today the first pole I passed was naked. Next pole, no poster. Another pole, same thing.

  Instead of turning onto Mokulama Drive, I drove the entire Lanikai loop that encircles the smal
l community, from the mountains to the sea. Every poster was gone. This was obviously not the work of kids or irritated neighbors because posters advertising lawn sales and missing property were still hanging.

  So I wasn’t feeling optimistic as I pulled up to 107 Mokulama. The sagging frame house stood on a narrow overgrown lot half a block from the beach—a plantation shack among glitzy McMansions. A half dozen neglected coconut palms bulged with nuts ready to drop. Beneath each tree were mounds of nuts and fronds where they had crashed. Broken windows, loose shingles, flaking paint, wild hedges, and junk cars on the brown grass screamed neglect.

  I parked across the street, surprised that the old hovel looked so familiar. Then I remembered. It had been featured on the evening news—an example of a growing drug problem in the islands and the frustration of citizens trying to combat it.

  The owner of the home was a destitute widower in his seventies who had invited some questionable friends to occupy his digs, rent-free, in exchange for improving the property. Most had arrest records as long as their needle-tracked arms. The improvements never happened. Soon it became clear, to his neighbors anyway, that his shack had been taken over by drug dealers, thieves, and prostitutes. So why did he let them stay? The prostitutes. He was fond of them.

  His cozy arrangement went along fine until his neighbors—weary of the endless partying and brawling—dialed 911. Even after several busts, the party continued, which is possibly why I got my tip. But why would druggies steal a dog? To feed their habit?

  A Doberman sleeping among the weeds darted after me when he heard my car door slam. His fangs sent me back into the cockpit. The Dobie jumped up against my driver’s door, his hot breath fogging the window. His claws dug into the turquoise paint.

  “Ikaika, ovah heah!” A woman of about forty with dirt-brown hair ratted up into a topknot stepped from the house.

  Ikaika turned tail and retreated. The topknot woman chained him under a sagging carport. I stepped from my car and approached her. Up close, I could see a nasty scar zigzagging across her sweaty forehead and dark shadows under her eyes.