Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

photo of a deeply tanned man in his middle twenties. Under a thatch of straw yellow curls, green eyes dominated. Mirrored sunglasses, the expensive kind some surfers wear, hung from a cord around his neck. His adolescent smile turned downward on one side, revealing a hint of
attitude.
He looked agitated, like a guy about to throw a punch.
    “Corky took out a two hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy before his trip,” Summer said. “The time lapse clause, or whatever they call it, matured just a few days before his accident, but the insurance company hasn’t paid. Mr. Gold, the adjuster, is very apologetic.”
    “Surfers do unfortunately sometimes disappear. Your Mr. Gold must know that.”
    “Oh, he does. It’s not just the short time the policy was in effect. Mr. Gold says Corky’s case raises several red flags.”
    “What red flags?”
    “Corky withdrew all our savings before he left,” she said matter-of-factly.
    “Did he tell you he was going to clean out the account?”
    “No, not at the time. But he probably needed the money for his trip.” She seemed unconcerned by an action some spouses might consider treacherous and disloyal.
    “What else?”
    “Corky charged our credit cards over the limit. A few charges came through even after he died.”
    “The card could have been stolen,” I conjectured, “or the purchases posted late.”
    “Well, we have low spending limits, so it’s no surprise he went over them. Another thing,” Summer went on, “Mr. Gold asked me why Corky would have been seen driving a BMW convertible—an expensive new model.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I said Corky didn’t own a BMW. We couldn’t afford one. But he had an auto detailing business in California. He may have earned extra money in Hawai‘i by working on that BMW, and just took it for a ride.”
    “That’s a possibility. Anything else?”
    She shook her head. “Corky always wanted to be a big name surfer—a sponsored surfer—and he looked at his trips here as investments in his career—and in our future. He dreamed that someday, somehow, a sponsor would discover him. He even changed his name from Charles to Corky after a legendary California surfer . . .”
    “Corky Carroll?”
    “Yes, I believe that’s the one. Corky . . . er, Charles . . . talked about his idol constantly, though he never actually met him.”
    I caught myself gazing at her again. I was thinking about her baby. If she were my wife, and in the last months of her pregnancy, would I abandon her to ride the world’s biggest, most dangerous waves?
    Maybe Corky didn’t want to be a father after all. Maybe he preferred to go out in a blaze of glory, rather than face his parental responsibilities.
    “Summer, I have to ask you this.” I hated to say it out loud. “Do you know any reason why your husband would fake his own death?”
    She shook her head. “It wasn’t like him to do something so desperate.”
    “Not even to defraud the insurance company of two hundred thousand dollars?”
    “Not my Corky.”
    The waitress came by and refilled my coffee. “Would you like anything?” I asked Summer again.
    “Nothing, thanks,” she said.
    “It won’t be easy to prove your husband died.” I tried to be realistic with her. “When surfers disappear, a shredded wet suit or torn board shorts may be all that turns up. Some vanish without a trace.”
    She didn’t respond, but kept looking at me hopefully.
    “‘Course Waimea on a big day is like a huge outdoor arena with hundreds of onlookers and photographers, so we may come up with something. A bobbing surfer might have been spotted, though maybe not after sunset when your husband wiped out. But even if I find evidence of your husband’s . . . ,” I groped for words, “evidence of your husband, I can’t guarantee the insurance company will accept it as proof.”
    Summer’s determined look suggested she wasn’t fazed by what I’d said.
    “How soon can you start?”
    “About the retainer . . .” I reminded her of her promise. “In a case like this confined to O’ahu, five hundred would be OK for starters.”
    She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of crumpled green bills—all Ben Franklins—setting them on the table. There must have been a dozen hundreds easily, all wadded up and wrinkled.
    I separated out five crumpled notes and slid the others across the table to her.
    “I wish you would take them all, so I don’t have to make another