Free Mahu Surfer by Neil Plakcy Page B

how one could hack into the school’s computer system and change student grades. Chang’s photo, which was close enough for my purposes to the one I’d seen in his dossier, clinched the deal for me.
     
    There was a little note on the web page thanking Mr. Chang for his insight, which resulted in a total revamp of the school’s computer grading system. If Ronnie could do that at 16, I thought, what was he capable of at 25?
     
    I went back to the dossiers on the dead surfers. Ronnie Chang was a computer technician for a firm in Honolulu, and the investigating detectives had spoken to his co-workers, but as far as I could tell, no one had spoken to his family or friends back in Maui. I wondered about that, and sent a quick email to Lieutenant Sampson asking if there had been a reason why not.
     
    There was almost nothing online about Lucie Zamora, other than her name on the roster of a couple of surfing tournaments. The original detectives had run all three surfers through the police system, checking for arrests, warrants, and other malfeasance, and all three had come up clean.
     
    My brother Lui emailed that he still felt bad about running the stories on me, even though both the series on gay cops around the country, which ran while I was suspended, and the series on coming out, which ran during my first week on the North Shore, got great ratings and great viewer feedback. He suggested that a big family luau at Waimea Bay Beach Park might make me feel better.
     
    I replied by saying I’d only agree if I could challenge him and Haoa to a surf contest, and I copied the entire family on the message.
     
    My older brothers had been great surfers in their day. Neither had pushed it as far as I had, but both were good, and both still kept their boards in their garages, though I doubted either had been on the water for years. My father even promised that he would join us for a wave or two if we would all go out together. I could just imagine what my mother thought of that idea, but as my father got older, he never missed a chance to hang out with his boys.
     
    Sampson must have been online himself that afternoon, because I got an email back almost immediately, authorizing me to fly to Maui to talk to people about Ronnie Chang. It wasn’t a big deal; an inter-island flight takes about half an hour, and the round trip, with a rental car, would be under $200. I was able to get a reservation for the next morning, which meant I needed to be at the airport in Honolulu early. I decided to drive down that night and sleep in my own bed—but I didn’t tell my family or friends, because I didn’t want to have to come up with yet another lie.
     
    It was strange pulling into my own parking lot, climbing the stairs to my own little studio apartment. I had only been away for two weeks, but I had immersed myself so much in my new life on the North Shore that I almost felt like I didn’t belong back in Honolulu. Or maybe it was that I knew I didn’t belong back there until I had solved the murders.
     
    I had been waking before sunrise every day, so the next morning I was able to make it to the airport in plenty of time for my flight. The Hawaiian Airlines agent recognized my name at the gate and winked at me, but that was the extent of my notoriety. I figured I had finally slid out of the newspapers, and I was able to settle back into a bit of anonymity.
     
    I got into Kapalua-West Maui Airport on the Valley Isle a little after ten. I had a list of things to check out—Ronald Chang’s high school, and his parents’ restaurant, for starters. I was also going to cruise a couple of surf shops, looking for anyone who might have known him.
     
    I took the Honoapiilani Highway, which circles around West Maui, down to Lahaina, where I was looking for Victor Texeira, the computer science teacher at Lahainaluna High. I was somewhat surprised to discover, when I asked at the office for him, that I was directed to the gym, rather than to a