Free Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout by Chip Hughes

What’s his story? I’ve heard the name.”
    “Sun?” Tommy brushed back his shock of grey hair. “He comes from nowhere and everywhere. He’s ubiquitous, my lad,
ubiquitous.
He wears his trademark Panama hat and sun glasses—always—day and night. Some say he’s Korean, others that he’s German or Bolivian. I doubt his real name is Sun. It may be
Sonne
—German, you know. But no one of my acquaintance has actually seen him in the flesh.”
    “Ubiquitous, huh?” I tried on Tommy’s big word.
    “Sun has a fairly complex organization of suppliers, distributors, dealers, money launderers, strong arms—the whole tamale. His group reaches from the islands to the Orient, California, and into Mexico and South America. Sun Imports, his front business, is a warehouse off Ward Avenue. The place has atmosphere—straw on the floor and steamer trunks full of pottery and exotic foreign goods. It’s a popular store.”
    “I’ve seen it, just never dropped in.”
    “You’re not the pottery type, Kai.” Tommy grinned. “Neither am I.”
    The waitress brought our ribs and fried rice. Tommy went first for the meat. “And what these days occupies the Surfing Detective?”
    We switched serving plates. “Another crazy case.” I said. “This California blonde—very pregnant—who’ll only meet at Denny’s in Waikiki. No explanation why. She’s gorgeous, though
.
Never mind she looks as if she could give birth to a baby whale at any moment.”
    “So what does this pregnant woman want with you?”
    “She wants me to prove her husband is dead.”
    “She doesn’t know if her own husband is dead?”
    “It’s a life insurance claim for two hundred grand.”
    “Ah.” Tommy nodded knowingly. “That ought to make her comfortable for a while.”
    I gave him the brief version of Corky’s wipeout and the red flags that the insurance company was balking at.
    “Any question in your mind that this surfer is dead?”
    “If Corky was planning to skip, he couldn’t have done a better job of preparing his nest egg: empty bank accounts, maxed-out credit cards, a missing BMW. But, except for a sliced surfboard leash, there’s no real evidence. And I doubt he and the wife are in this together. I’d say she’s a victim of her husband’s irresponsibility.”
    The Lemon Chicken arrived, followed by more hot tea.
    “By the way,” Tommy asked idly, “what motive would your surfer have to skip?”
    “To escape fatherhood, to keep on surfing free. That’s the best I can come up with. But no way could he ever become the sponsored, big name surfer he dreamed of—not without his wife and the insurance company finding out. So what’s the point in skipping?”
    When our fortune cookies finally appeared, neither made sense to us, but they rarely do. My “An Exotic Companion Awaits You” was at least more intriguing than solo Tommy’s: “Family Always Comes First.”
    Later that night, back at the Waikiki Edgewater, there were no messages waiting for me—not from Summer or Leimomi. Then I remembered, too late, that I had promised to call Lei. Once again, that unflattering parallel between Corky and me came to mind.

Eleven

    I didn’t sleep well that night and awoke Thursday morning with a groggy head, fuzzy mouth, and a feeling of dread. The case was on my mind. So was Leimomi.
    I flipped through the wad of green hundreds. A flight to Maui and a rental car for the day would cost less than a few bills. Hardly a dent.
    Two people had told me that Maya was from Maui. And one of them had a hazy recollection that she’d resided upcountry in Makawao. If these tips turned out to be true, it shouldn’t be hard to find her in the small mountain town. A few sloping blocks of wood frame buildings comprised the main drag of this commercial and cultural hub of upcountry Maui. Makawao could be canvassed easily in a few hours. I would have liked to discuss the trip with Summer first. But since she wasn’t returning my calls, I might