Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

the racks on the wide teal roof, tightened the nylon straps inside the cabin, and lashed the candy-striped red board securely in place.
    Back on Maunakea Street I maneuvered the lengthy gun between the cashier’s counter and refrigerated display cases at Fujiyama’s, and up the orange shag stairs. I got a few looks from Mrs. Fujiyama and her lei girls. Leimomi actually frowned. Did she think this telltale board proved her boyfriend had taken up big wave riding? Considering Leimomi’s “condition,” that probably made me as irresponsible to her as Corky McDahl had been. The parallel made me wince.
    Inside my office I set Corky’s board on a rail along my longest wall and checked out the repair job. Amateur, as Surf’n’ Jenny had said. The patched board looked dappled like a roan pony, its dings unpainted, wavy, and irregular. I couldn’t believe the seller had put such a high price on a wreck like this.
    Before examining it further, I noticed the familiar blinking light of my answering machine and checked my messages.
    “Mr. Cooke,” said a singsong female voice, “this is Mr. DiCarlo’s secretary returning your call from his office in Costa Mesa, California. Mr. DiCarlo is out of town, but he would appreciate any information you could provide him about his stolen car . . .”
    Mr. DiCarlo’s
stolen car? Was this a twice-stolen car—heisted from both DiCarlo and Grossvendt? And if the former hadn’t turned it in to the BMW dealership, who had?
    Quickly I returned the secretary’s call.
    “DiCarlo Inc.,” answered the same voice that had left the message.
    I told her who I was and she became helpful.
    “You’ve found Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
    “Not exactly. I’ve found that it has been stolen—again. Not from Mr. DiCarlo, but from the car’s new owner here in Hawai‘i.”
    “In Hawai‘i?” The singsong voice hit a high note.
    “That’s right. Did Mr. DiCarlo ship his car to Honolulu?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “Well, this is a bit of a coincidence—Mr. DiCarlo is vacationing in Hawai‘i.”
    “That
is
a coincidence. Are you in touch with him?”
    “I can be.”
    “Would you give me his number or ask him to call me?”
    “I’ll ask him to call you.”
    “Fine,” I said, feeling like we were finally getting somewhere. “One last question. Does the name Corky McDahl sound at all familiar?”
    “Corky?” She paused. “Isn’t he the fellow who washes Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
    Bingo.
“He apparently had an auto detailing business in Newport Beach.“
    “Then that’s him, yes, Corky cleaned Mr. DiCarlo’s car.”
    “The BMW convertible—maroon with cream leather?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could Corky have taken that convertible to Hawai‘i?”
    “Why would he do that? Why would Mr. DiCarlo allow him to?”
    “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure you can’t give me Mr. DiCarlo’s phone number in Hawai‘i?”
    “I’d like to, Mr. Cooke. You sound very honest and sincere, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I will call him with your number right away.”
    “What kind of business is he in?”
    “Import-export.”
    “What sort of products?”
    “The products change depending on what’s available.”
    “Did his business take him to Hawai‘i?”
    “Mr. DiCarlo travels extensively on business,” she said, “mostly to Mexico and South America. He speaks fluent Spanish.”
    “That so? I’d really appreciate hearing from Mr. DiCarlo.”
    “You will,I’m sure.”
    I then phoned the number Summer had given me and got that heavy accent again. “Leave message at tone, if you please . . .”
    I asked Summer to call me, mentioning vaguely that I had made some progress.
    Next I placed a call to the North Shore number of “Maya.” A young woman answered.
    “Maya?” I asked.
    “No,” she corrected me. “Maya doesn’t live here anymore.”
    “Where’s here?”
    “Who’s calling, please?” She sounded agitated.
    “Kai. I was a surfing buddy of Corky McDahl.”
    “You have the wrong number.”
    “Where might I find Maya now?”
    Click.
    No worries. I pulled out my handy directory that lists the addresses of all people on O’ahu by phone number, turned to the prefix “638,” then scanned down until I found the last four digits of the number I’d just called. It belonged to an address off Kamehameha Highway called Ke Nui Road that fronts the ocean.
    Ke Nui is a road of big wave riders. It looks out on the famous breaks of the