Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

in the direction of Diamond Head, leaving me more than curious about Summer’s mysterious friends.
    Down by the Waikiki Aquarium, where I had parked under a shady stand of ironwoods, I climbed into my Impala and headed for Honolulu’s sole BMW dealership. Chances were, if the car Corky was seen in had been purchased or serviced here, the dealer would know about it.
    After a few minutes traveling
ewa
on Kapi‘olani Boulevard, I pulled to the curb just beyond Ward Avenue, parking my old Chevy out of view from the showroom. I strolled down the street and then through the showroom doors, trying to look as confident as any potential new luxury car buyer.
    The mirror-like marble floor reflected an impressive array of German automobiles. While waiting for the salesman I had time to admire them: sedans in midnight blue and metallic silver, a pastel yellow convertible, a flame red sports car. I eyed supple leather seats in one sleek “driving machine” after another. Had I forty or sixty or eighty grand to drop on a car, this would be a nice place to start.
    I had paid only one grand for my thirty-year-old Impala and the grieving widow who sold it to me was very pleased to get that. The car would have gone for less, but somebody had told her it was a classic. A single alloy wheel on the titanium metallic sport sedan now in my gaze probably cost as much as my old Chevy. Does that mean the BMW would be more fun? I don’t know. But as long as I can ride waves, any wheels that can get me and my board to the beach will do fine.
    “Can I put you behind the wheel of that sensational M5?” The grinning salesman approached me with his right arm extended. “You must be Mr. Cooke?”
    “Yes,” I said, shaking his hand, “But one problem—to buy it I’d have to sell my soul.”
    “Well,” the salesman’s smile broadened, “how much is your soul worth?”
    “Actually,” I said, starting my spiel, “As I mentioned on the phone, I‘m trying to trace a certain BMW. I’m a private investigator.”
    His smile faded. “Oh, well . . . if I can help.”
    I handed him my card. When he glanced at the longboard rider, he perked up again. “Do you know anything about the car?”
    “Not much. The deceased’s wife can remember only one BMW her husband detailed in his business in California.”
    “California?” The salesman looked dubious.
    “I know. It’s a long shot.”
    “Well, we do buy and sell a lot of cars—and some have out of state plates, occasionally.”
    “The car she remembers was a new or nearly new convertible—maroon with cream-colored leather and top.”
    The salesman seemed to be scanning his memory. “A few months ago we took in a maroon convertible, but with a black top and no California plates.”
    “It’s worth following up.”
    “I didn’t do the transaction. Another salesman did who’s since moved on. Hold on a minute and I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked from the showroom and disappeared into an inner office.
    Minutes later he returned with a handful of stapled forms. “Let’s see, we took in the maroon convertible in December . . . December thirteenth . . . and I was wrong about the top. It
was
tan, not black.“ He studied some figures. “Boy, we got a deal on this.” He flipped between pages. “It looks like the seller took way below wholesale bluebook for the vehicle—less than he had to if he would have done his homework. And I remember the car was in great shape.”
    “What was the owner’s name?”
    “DiCarlo.” The salesman glanced at the colored forms. “Damon DiCarlo of Balboa, California.”
    “Damn.”
    “Not the guy you’re looking for?”
    “Afraid not.”
    “The car was registered in California,” the salesman continued. “And had California plates.”
    Just then a woman in a silk dress and spiked heels—someone who looked like she could afford a new BMW—strolled in.
    “Excuse me a moment,” said the salesman as he eagerly approached his new prospect. They talked briefly and then the woman must have uttered something to the effect of “just looking,” and the salesman backed off. He returned to me.
    “So what happened to this maroon convertible?” I asked as he walked toward me.
    “We sold it to an attorney on Bishop Street. But since he’s a current customer, technically, I can’t give you his name.” The salesman held a pink form carelessly within my view, his thumb next to the words “William J. Grossvendt.”
    “I