Surfing Detective 00 - The Making of Murder on Molokai

speed limit to seventy-five.
Bad idea.
    Not surprisingly, some callers were all for it. “Cars are better built today,” they said. “Freeways are safer,” etc. I wasn’t buying it. Some callers sounded pretty brash. Others were huhū–very upset.
    I tried to imagine such a talk show broadcast in the islands. Callers would be more soft-spoken, I imagined, if not more humble. In Hawai‘i being loud and opinionated is not necessarily considered a virtue.
    More brash voices battled on that L.A. talk show.
Later.
I switched off the radio and mulled over my perplexing case: Adrienne doesn’t speak to her sister for five years, then upon her death inherits everything. She blames the accident on Sara’s ex-husband, but has hardly a shred of evidence. Parke’s visiting Kalaupapa the day before Sara’s fall looks suspicious, but how in the world could he have killed her? Only one witness, Milton Yu, admits to knowing J. Gregory Parke. Another witness, Heather Linborg, though she denies it, probably knows him as well. But none of this, so far, leads anywhere. If Yu and Linborg did conspire with Parke, the same problem:
how could they have committed murder with a mule?
    Maybe Adrienne simply had too vivid an imagination. Maybe she felt guilty about her sister’s death. It was hard to tell. I was beginning to wonder which was the bigger puzzle: the case or the client? I decided to put the whole thing out of my mind for next few blissful hours that I hoped to spend with my
‘ono wahine,
Niki.

    Before reaching the LAX airport turnoff, I left the San Diego Freeway at Venice Boulevard and drove west to Pacific Coast Highway. Descending jets hung in the airport’s glide paths like glinting beads. I pulled into a Chevron station and topped off the Taurus, then drove through a McDonald’s for a Quarter Pounder with cheese and a shake. Just thinking about seeing Niki again had made me hungry.
Yes!
And the two thousand miles of ocean between Adrienne and me had begun to assuage my guilty conscience. Besides, Niki and I had never pledged undying faithfulness. We’d only known each other six months.
    I sped along the Coast Highway toward Niki’s condo, balancing my burger and shake. My pulse quickened. My heart thumped. I got crazy just thinking about my
fun-fun-fun
California blonde. Less than a mile’s drive south brought the back bay of Marina Del Rey, a pleasure boat harbor only two miles from the airport and lined with yachts, trendy restaurants, and swanky condos.
    Marina Del Rey is a lively place. In these condos, among sun-tanned boaters, reside pilots and flight attendants from the many airlines that serve LAX. Most are young and single and on the prowl, the married ones having moved to inland suburbs to raise their families. Niki lived in such a condo called
La Casa Nova.
Though flight attendants frequently share their apartments, Niki had told me she lived alone, preferring privacy and quiet to catch up on sleep after long night flights.
    La Casa Nova
I’d never seen, but she had described it to me in such detail that I easily found the rambling stucco buildings across from the bay-front “Chowder House” restaurant with a dozen slips filled with yachts. I parked my car and approached the condominium on foot. Its wrought iron security gate, as I expected, was locked. Since I wanted to surprise Niki, I didn’t use the intercom. I waited for a resident to come along with a gate key.
    Within minutes two arm-in-arm lovers, both in airline uniforms, strolled up as if walking on air. The bleach blonde woman and her glazed-eyed pilot were oblivious to me. The gate opened and I followed them in. They never looked back, beating a hot path to their apartment.
    The lushly landscaped
La Casa Nova
consisted of a several stuccoed wings built around a pink, heart-shaped swimming pool. Nice touch. The effect reminded me of a Japanese “love hotel.” From Niki’s letters, I recalled that her apartment was“309-F.” I wandered the grounds until I found the “F” wing, huffed up outdoor stairs to the third floor, then hurried past the first few doors. My pulse was racing when I reached “309-F.” To drive Adrienne Ridgely and her case far from my mind, I chanted a love mantra:
Niki–Niki–Niki.
When Niki’s door eventually opened, I was sure my face would reveal nothing but Pure Stoke at seeing my
‘ono wahine.
    Imagining the totally
out of control
scene that would soon take place in Niki’s condo
–Ho!–
I