Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

should be telling
me
these things.
    “I want to see you,” she said suddenly. “I want to see this evidence.”
    “OK. But let’s meet in my office. The evidence is confidential and I don’t want to carry it out of here.”
    “Alright.” She agreed. “When?”
    It was nearly four. “Can you get over here by 4:30?”
    There was a long pause, as if she were consulting someone. “Yes. How do I get there?”
    I gave her directions, then hung up the phone. I tilted back in my swivel chair, feet up on the desk, and puzzled over my client and her husband and his redhead girlfriend. Love triangle? Co-conspirators? At this point, the jury was still out.
    Suddenly I got “chicken skin”— goose bumps—as if surfing in wintry conditions without a wetsuit. I took my feet off the desk and opened its wide center drawer.
    Way in back under a tablet of yellow legal paper lay my Smith & Wesson. The blue-black .357 Magnum felt cold and heavy in my hands. It was loaded with six rounds. I put it on one corner of my desktop, artfully covered with a loose arrangement of bills and receipts I had neglected to file.
    I put the letter from Corky’s mother under the plastic liner in my wastebasket. If Summer decided to bring company, I didn’t want anybody to walk off with it.
    The longer I thought about my client’s visit, the more uneasy I felt. On impulse I called Tommy.

Thirteen

    “Hey, Kai,” Tommy answered on the second ring, “Did you hear the one about the curvy local girl who went door-to-door as a handy-man?”
    “Can the jokes, Tommy,” I cut him off. “I’ve got a quick favor to ask.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Somebody’s coming to my office at four thirty and I’m a little concerned—not about her—but about who she might bring along.”
    “The pregnant blonde? The wife of the dead California surfer?”
    “He’s not dead. He’s living in upcountry Maui with his new girlfriend.”
    “So he skipped out after all.” Tommy didn’t sound surprised.
    “Looks like it, but there may be another angle. I’m wondering if the wife is caught up in something much larger.”
    “Yeah? Well, what can I do for you, Kai?”
    “She’s coming at four thirty . . . Would you call me at quarter to five? Just to see if I’m still breathing?”
    “Sure.”
    “Thanks.” I checked my desk clock. “She’ll be here any minute. Talk with you later.”
    I hung up and waited. If Summer stayed true to form, she would show up at least ten minutes late. I should have told Tommy to call at five.
    At 4:25 a faint knock sounded at my door. Before I could reach the knob, the solid mahogany swung open to reveal two men in black suits. No Summer.
    One of the men had dark hair and complexion, maybe Middle Eastern or Mediterranean. I recognized him as Summer’s escort. The other had bleached white hair and the washed-out skin of an albino. The whites of his eyes were a mouse-like pink. This odd pair of men stood in my doorway, silently—me looking at them, them looking at me.
    “Mr. Cooke?” The dark man broke the silence. He didn’t look angry or belligerent. He actually cracked a smile—which worried me.
    “Yes, I’m Kai Cooke.”
    He reached into his pocket. I edged toward the Smith & Wesson. If he was pulling out his piece, I wanted mine too.
    “‘Gratulation!” blurted the white-haired one. Then his partner handed me a wad of green bills—Ben Franklins—rolled cylindrically like
sushi,
with money where the rice and Spam would go, and bound by a rubber band.
    “Mr. Sun say investigation over,” announced the white one.
    “Mr. Sun? But Summer . . .”
    “No, sir,” said the dark one in the accent of an English gentleman. “You are under the employ of Mr. Frank O. Sun. And when Mr. Sun says your investigation is over, Mr. Sun means your investigation is over
.
Understood, sir?”
    “Sure, I understand.” It appeared there was only one right answer.
    “Thank you, then,” the dark one replied. “We bid you good day, sir.” They headed out the door.
    “Wait”—I tried to stop them—“Summer . . .” The door was shut on my words.
    The roll of hundreds in my hand began to feel heavy. I set it on my desk and slumped into my padded chair. I was gazing at the ceiling when my phone rang.
    “You OK, Kai?” It was Tommy.
    “Yeah, I’m ok. Tell me about Frank O. Sun.”
    “Is that who she brought?”
    “Summer didn’t show. Just two extremely well-dressed gentlemen—
malahinis
—who dropped several