Free Surfing Detective 04 - Hanging Ten in Paris by Chip Hughes Page A

her, but what she lacked in stature, she made up in intelligence. She was fortyish, British, and very bright. “I only wish we could put this behind us, Kai.”
    “The Songs are no doubt grieving,” I said as I sat down across from her.
    “That’s not the problem,” she said. “They don’t believe Ryan killed himself. And they think that you—a surfer, like Ryan, and a private detective—can somehow prove he didn’t. I tried the dissuade them, but it was no use.”
    “Thanks for the gig,” I said.
    “Your broad shoulders and sun-bleached hair should convince them you’re the genuine article.”
    I almost said,
And the shark bite on my chest?
But replied: “You’re too kind.”
    She stood, opened a file drawer, and handed me a sheet with color headshots of Ryan and his fellow students from the Paris program—four girls and three guys—seven in all. There was a name under each photo and contact information. Serena pointed to a handsome boy of about twenty with luminous eyes, short spiky hair, and a shy smile. His face was open and sunny.
    “That’s Ryan,” she said.
    “Looks like a nice, happy kid,” I said.
    “He was quiet,” she said. “I think that’s why he fell for Marie. She’s the life of the party.” Serena pointed to an attractive island girl with bobbed hair, grey eyes, intelligent brow, and a playful smirk. She looked full of fun.
    “Opposites attract,” I said.
    “Ryan was clever too. His French was the best in the group, next to Marie’s, and he played the guitar and had a gorgeous voice. The girls adored him. They took his death very hard. Marie was devastated.”
    “And the guys?”
    “I doubt it was much easier for them. Or for Russ . . . uh, Professor Van.”
    “What a shame,” I said.
    “If only Marie hadn’t met that fellow Pierre in Paris . . . .” Serena filled me in, then opened her file drawer again and removed a folder labeled Ryan Song. “Brace yourself, Kai.” She handed me a photo.
    It was Ryan hanging. He had on a pair of board shorts. No shirt. No shoes. His ten toes appeared to dangle over the floor. His face was almost blue and his head turned at an unnatural angle. Beneath him lay a note and a snapshot of the girl I assumed was Marie. A small table was tipped nearby on its side. The rope around his neck was tied to a chandelier connected to the ceiling by a chain. The photo was stamped: Prefecture de Police.
    “Sad,” I said. But something else was bothering me. Ryan’s attire. He looked like any surfer walking down Kalākaua Avenue in Waikīkī. But he was in Paris. In winter.
Board shorts
?
No shirt or shoes?
I didn’t say anything about it, just asked, “How did Ryan get on with the other students?”
    “Well,” she said, “with everyone.” She shook her head. “Here’s a copy of the suicide note.” It was computer-printed in bold caps: AU REVOIR, MARIE.
    “I don’t speak French,” I admitted. “I’ve never even been to France.”
    “
Au revoir
means goodbye,” Serena said. “You won’t have to know any French. And on the Songs’ budget, no way you’re going to Paris.”
    “Okay, then why did Ryan print the note? Why not write it by hand?
    “Printed in bold caps to make a bold statement?” Serena said.
    “Seems kind of impersonal,” I said. “Where did you get the note?”
    “The college requested Ryan’s case file from the Paris police,” Serena said. “What was passed on to me is in this folder: The photo, the note, and the police report—translated into English. And here’s a DVD about our Paris program and a tourist map.” She unfolded on her desk the map displaying major historical sites and buildings.
    “So this is Paris?” I gazed at the dizzying maze of streets, each called Rue this or that, and the River Seine that wound through them.
    “Our program is at the University of Paris—the Sorbonne—in the Latin Quarter. It’s here.” She put her finger on a spot just below the river. “On the Left Bank in