Mahu Surfer Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  A noisy bunch of Japanese tourists passed us, on their way to a whale-watching excursion, or at least that’s where I guessed they were going, from all the whale paraphernalia they were either wearing or carrying; a half dozen of them wore paper crowns that looked like whale’s tails. When they passed, Will said, “He really wanted this top of the line board, but he didn’t have the dough, especially with buying presents for this chick and paying for the trip to Mexico—for both of them, by the way.”

  “You know this chick’s name?”

  “Sure. Lucie. He used to make a joke about it, you know, I Love Lucie.”

  “And when he came back, he had the money for the board?”

  “Right on. He ordered it through me, and I had it shipped to him in Hale’iwa. He only had it like a week before he got killed.”

  “Bummer.”

  Will nodded. We talked for a couple more minutes, and then he said that his break was over and he had to get back to work. That was fine with me, because I had to catch my flight to O’ahu. I drove to the airport, thinking about what I’d heard. Lucie Zamora and Mexpipe connected Mike Pratt and Ronnie Chang, and something had happened in Mexico that upset Mike and brought Ronnie cash.

  Could Ronnie have rigged the results at Mexpipe, moving Mike’s position up so he could win more money, by hacking into a computer? Or perhaps Ronnie had rigged Mike’s board with some kind of computer sensors that gave him an edge—that would explain why Mike had been bitching about his board after he returned.

  Then Mike had joined up with the Christian surfers at El Refugio, making him regret what he’d done. Or perhaps he was just angry that his board didn’t work right any more.

  I fell asleep almost the moment my butt hit the airplane seat, and didn’t wake up until we were just about to land. I was so tired I could barely drive back to my apartment, and after scarfing down a quick dinner I went directly to bed.

  The next morning, Tuesday, I slept late. Sure, I could have gotten up at dawn and surfed Kuhio Beach Park, but I was getting spoiled by those big North Shore waves. And since the park was right next to the police station where I had worked for six years, there was a good chance I’d run into an old colleague or two, people I didn’t want to have to explain myself to at present.

  By ten o’clock I was on my way to Aloha Security, the company where Ronnie had worked. His boss, a haole named Pierre Lewin, was a reformed hippie with a French accent and brown hair in a ponytail halfway down his back. His office was filled with posters, half of them from rock concerts and the other half advertising computer software.

  I gave him the same story, that I’d been asked to look into Ronnie’s death, and he didn’t question me. “Ronnie was a gifted hacker,” Lewin said. “You know what that is?”

  “Somebody who breaks into computer systems?”

  Lewin nodded. “And what we do here is consult with folks who don’t want anyone to break into their systems. Ronnie’s job was to do his best to exploit all the weaknesses in customer systems. Then we’d come up with ways to block those holes, and he’d test again. We have a lot of very big clients—none of whom I can mention because of security issues.”

  “That’s fine. So Ronnie could probably break into any system he wanted to?” Even the one tabulating the scores at a surfing competition, I wanted to add.

  “Anyone other than one of our established clients,” he said, leaning forward.

  “That’s a pretty dangerous skill, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “We’re not talking about Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, dangling from a wire into somebody’s computer bank. Ronnie mostly worked from his apartment in Hale’iwa.”

  “You ever have the idea that he was breaking into other systems—ones you weren’t paying him to test?”

  “Our employees have to undergo rigorous background checks. They’re bonded, and they know there are dire consequences for anybody who circumvents the law.”

  Yeah, right, I was thinking. We talked some more about computer security and hacking, and then I left. I wondered how seriously Ronnie had taken those consequences. Clearly, he hadn’t recognized how bad they might be.

  I decided I’d swing past the Prince Kuhio, the hotel on Waikiki where Lucie’s mother worked, and see if I could talk to her. I knew the Kuhio well; it was only a couple of blocks from my apartment, so I stopped back at my place for a few minutes, to read through the file on Lucie one more time.

  The investigating detectives had talked to Mrs. Zamora, and to her son, Frankie. Neither of them had any idea why someone would want to kill Lucie—she was such a sweet, kind girl. She went to church every Sunday, her mother said.

  Knowing what Ronnie Chang had told his parents about Lucie—that she was his fiancée—I wanted to know if she had told her mother about the engagement. She hadn’t, I discovered. Mrs. Zamora, a petite, trim woman in a gray and white uniform, was able to meet me on her break, in a garden just off the hotel’s lobby.

  She’d never even heard Ronnie’s name. The investigating detectives hadn’t mentioned him or his murder, and Lucie had never told her mother they were engaged. “You’re sure my Lucie knew him?”

  I nodded. “They had friends in common. And he spoke of her to his parents.”

  “He was a good boy, this Ronnie?”

  “I think so,” I said. “He had a good job. Their friends say he took Lucie out, and bought her gifts.”

  “She no tell me anything after she move to Hale’iwa,” Mrs. Zamora said sadly. “She only say what she know I want to hear. Yes, Mama, I go to church. Yes, Mama, I marry nice Filipino boy. Yes, Mama, I make you proud of me.” Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a tissue. “She give me money so her brother can go to college. Every week, she send me an envelope with a hundred dollars, cash money. I tell her no send cash through the mail, but my Lucie, she so honest. She say no one steal the money. She say she make lots of money soon, she buy me a house, let me stop work.”

  I told Mrs. Zamora that I would do my best to find out who killed her daughter, and she smiled sadly. “My Lucie with the angels now. She sit at Jesus’s right hand.”

  Frank Talk

  I headed back north after that, driving straight to The Next Wave. I ordered an extra-large raspberry mocha, turned on my laptop and started going through my notes. I had spoken to a lot of people in a short time, and I needed to make some connections between them. Reviewing my conversations with Victor Texeira, the Changs, Will Wong, Michel Lewin and Mrs. Zamora, I began to get a clearer picture of the three surfers.

  Lucie Zamora was the connection between Mike Pratt and Ronnie Chang. All three needed money; Mike and Lucie for surfing, Ronnie for dating Lucie. Somehow, Mexico, the Mexpipe competition, and Ronnie’s hacking skills had to be connected.

  I had to learn more about Lucie. But how? I turned to the Internet, and began sifting through hundreds of Zamoras. I had just about given up, though I still had Lucie’s name on the screen when a skinny twenty-something guy with a goofy little patch of goatee on his chin flopped down next to me. “Hey, dude, you knew Lucie?” he asked.

  My sensors went on alert. I shrugged nonchalantly. “A little. You?”

  “Used to date her. Man, I am wiped.” He took a long drink of his cappuccino. “Need a caffeine fix something mad.”

  “I hear you,” I said, holding up my own cup.

  He took a deep sip, and then sighed. “You look really familiar. Were you at Mexpipe?”

  I shook my head. “Never been.” I stuck out my hand. “Kimo.”

  “Frank.” He looked at me again. “Pipeline?”

  I nodded. “Just came up here two weeks ago, but I’ve been there pretty much every day.”

  “Cool.”

  “How was Mexpipe?” I asked.

  “Pretty radical. I got some awesome waves. Didn’t finish in the money but I met Lucie. Man, she was a great chick.” I noticed his hangdog expression. “We were
really grooving together, then we got back here and she got shot.”

  “Shot?” I asked. “How bad?”

  “Like dead, man.”

  “Where did this happen?” I asked. “Up here in Hale’iwa?”

  He nodded. “Right outside Club Zinc, about a month ago. She was wearing this pink dress that she loved, and it made her look so hot that all the guys were hitting on her. So I got mad and walked out. And somebody shot her as she was leaving. Probably to come look for me.”

  I stared but he kept on going. “I keep thinking like, maybe if I had been with her, it wouldn’t have happened, you know? Like somehow it was my fault. But she had her secrets, you know?” He sighed and started tearing his coffee cup into small pieces. “I guess we all do.”

  He lapsed into silence, just as I was hoping to hear what kind of secrets Lucie Zamora had. But I’ve interrogated a lot of people, and I had a feeling that if I waited, Frank would have more to say. “It’s tough,” I said. “I mean, you just start to get to know somebody, and then she’s gone. Makes you think.”

  “Totally. I mean, I had a feeling she was into something funny.” He stopped tearing and leaned toward me. “For a chick who supposedly came from nothing, and who wasn’t earning anything on the circuit, she lived pretty large.”

  “Surfing’s an expensive hobby.”

  “Tell me about it. But this chick, she had all these designer dresses, and expensive jewelry and all. I mean, she was fine. And when we got back from Mexpipe, the first place she went was this store, Butterfly, to buy some more stuff.”

  So like Mike and Ronnie, Lucie had come back from Mexico with money. Frank lapsed back into silence, so I said, “Where did you think she got the money?”

  He shrugged. “She didn’t like to give out information. I just figured she had some kind of scam going. But I didn’t want to know what it was. I just want to surf, man. I’m not some kind of detective or anything. She wanted the bling bling, that’s okay by me. I’m just bummed it got her killed.”

  “You think that’s what it was? A dangerous taste for the high life?”

  “And doing the things you gotta do to keep that taste satisfied.” Frank crumpled the last shreds of his coffee cup. “Gotta go,” he said. “I tend bar over at the Drainpipe. Come by sometime, dude.”

  “Sure.” I knew that I would, too, once I’d learned a little more about Lucie Zamora and had more pointed questions to ask. The dossier on her hadn’t mentioned a taste for designer labels, though that, combined with limited legal income, is often an indicator that there’s something fishy going on.

  I went back to the computer, and read a long email from Harry complaining about the crappy surf conditions at Kuhio Beach Park, our usual Waikiki surf spot. Then I waded through all the luau-related email. The kids were excited about seeing their dads on the surfboards, while my mother and sisters-in-law negotiated the menu. Who would bring the chicken long rice, the lomi lomi salmon, and the haupia, a coconut-milk pudding? Haoa had an imu, a Hawaiian style barbecue pit, in his backyard, so he would bring the kalua pig, a detail which could not help but annoy Lui. The two of them were only two years apart and had been battling for supremacy since infancy.

  When I finished, I sent an email to Sampson requesting any info that might indicate Lucie had expensive tastes—labels in her clothes or handbag, for starters. I looked up the store Frank had mentioned. Butterfly was a boutique in the North Shore Marketplace that sold designer-label clothing and accessories. I wasn’t sure how to approach it, though, without a badge.

  I didn’t want to try the same tactic I’d used on Maui. There was too much chance that the news I was investigating could get back to the wrong ears—either the killer, or the police. I didn’t want either to know what I was doing.

  It was nearly nine o’clock. I picked up some Mexican food and took it back to Hibiscus House. I was falling asleep as I ate. By the next morning, though, I had a plan. I’d surf for a while at Pipeline, then head up to Butterfly to see what I could learn about Lucie Zamora.

  Butterfly

  I surfed all day, and drove up to Butterfly just before six. It was Halloween, and the streets were full of little kids in ghost and pirate costumes. The North Shore Marketplace was decorated with fake pumpkins and orange-and-black banners.

  As soon as I arrived at the store, I realized I was in trouble. The dresses in the window were by Armani, Valentino, and Versace. A tiny purse studded with rhinestones had a price tag of $2400. The only recognizable label on my clothing was the Teva on my sandals; I wore a pair of board shorts whose pocket I had torn a few days before, and a T-shirt from Town and Country Surf Shop. Oh, and I’d forgotten to shave that morning in my hurry to get out on the water. In short, I looked like a moke, a native Hawaiian criminal more likely to smash the front window in and steal something than to walk in and shop for merchandise.

  I didn’t know what I’d hoped to achieve by going to Butterfly, and I was kicking myself for rushing in without thinking through a plan, when the door popped open and a guy in a black t-shirt and black slacks stuck his head out. “I know you!” he said, smiling. “You’re the gay cop!”

  “Busted.” I smiled and stuck my hand out. “Kimo Kanapa’aka.”

  “You are such a hero!” He shook my hand. “I’m Brad. Jacobson. It is so awesome to meet you!”

  “You work here?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s a living. Were you looking for something?”

  I decided to jump in. “Someone, more like. This girl I met at a surfing tournament. She told me she bought all her clothes here. I just moved up here, and she’s the only person I know in town. I thought—oh, it’s pretty dumb.”

  “No, what?”

  “I’ve been looking for her at the beach and I haven’t seen her. So I figured I might run into her around here.”

  “Come on inside.” Brad was in his late twenties, I figured, as I followed him into the store, which had the kind of elegant hush that comes from recessed lighting, thick pile carpeting, and price tags in the stratosphere. He wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome; his nose was crooked and his blond hair thinning, but he put himself together well. “What’s her name?”

  “Lucie,” I said. “Lucie Zamora.”

  “Oh, my God.” Brad clutched his heart. “You don’t know? Well, of course, you’ve been busy with your own troubles.”

  I tried to put surprise in my voice. “What?”

  “You’d better sit down.” He motioned me to an armchair that would have looked quite at home in my mother’s living room. I sat, and he pulled a similar chair up next to me. “She was killed! Shot down like a dog on the street.” Brad looked like he was ready to cry. “Oh, it was just awful.”

  I looked away from Brad, the way I’d observed the families of victims do when they heard the bad news, then when I looked back at him I rubbed my eyes and nose, body language that I knew conveyed disbelief. I let my voice get a little higher, and rushed the words out. “When did this happen?”

  “About a month ago. She was coming out of Club Zinc late at night, and somebody shot her.” He shook his head. “The police, of course, are clueless.” He smiled at me and touched my hand. “I’ll bet if they had you on the case, you’d already have the creep behind bars.”

  I took a deep breath, then put my hand up over my mouth, taking a moment to compose myself. I didn’t like faking emotions in front of someone as nice as Brad, but I had a role to play, and I knew that the better I played it, the more chance I would have of finding out information that could lead me to Lucie Zamora’s killer.

  “I’m sure the local guys did their best,” I said, finally. “They probably just haven’t released any results yet.” I put my hand to my cheek, a thinking gesture. “They must have talked to you, didn’t they?”

  He shook his head again. “Nope. And I mean, I wouldn’t say I was her closest friend, but, well, she was in here almost every week buying something. I knew her tastes almost as w
ell as my own.”

  “She liked her labels,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a weary smile.

  “Absolutely. Armani was like her god. Manolo for shoes. Coach for purses and belts. I mean, I could go on and on.” He waved his arm around the store, encompassing all the expensive labels around us. Each designer had a niche, I noted, with just a few examples of each style. Soft lighting highlighted the three-way mirrors in the corners.

  “I’m surprised. I never saw her name in the money at tournaments,” I said. “I didn’t realize she had the money for such expensive clothes. She have a sugar daddy somewhere?”

  Brad shook his head. “I don’t think so. Most of our customers—the ones with the rich husbands or daddies—use plastic. But our Lucie was a cash basis customer, even though sometimes she’d spend a thousand dollars on a dress. She said she’d gotten in trouble with credit cards once, so she didn’t buy anything she didn’t have the cash for.” He smiled. “But there wasn’t much she couldn’t buy, I’ll tell you.”