Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

seen on this desolate coast, two local fishermen mending a net. Beyond the shacks where the path ended, I did a U-turn and stopped, pointing the Jeep back toward the highway in case we needed to leave in a hurry.
    “The ship is about a mile down the beach.” I broke the news to Maya. “We’ll have to hike.“
    As we stepped from the Jeep, grains of wind-blown sand bit into our bare limbs like a swarm of mosquitoes.
Gusty Trades.
The tide was high and getting higher, leaving a narrow strip of beach bordered by thorny kiawe and littered with fishnets, ropes, Pepsi and Bud cans, driftwood, crab skeletons, rocks, and plastic containers of every color and shape. The sand literally blasted our every step as we fought our way down the inhospitable beach.
    Suddenly, out of nowhere, two more Jeeps, kicking up a cloud, came flying down the sandy road.
    “We’ve got company.”
    Maya glanced back, saying nothing.
    The Jeeps stopped well short of ours and as I watched the sand cloud settle, two men in dark suits piled out of one and began striding slowly toward us. Another one or two remained behind in the other Jeep.
Frank O. Sun?
A good hundred yards stood between them and our own Jeep, which was beginning to look dangerously far away.
    “Let’s turn around.”
    “Turn around?” Maya arched her brows. “What about the map?”
    “If we find it, Sun is going to want it too . . . . We better head back to Lana‘i City, where there’s safety in numbers.”
    Maya nodded and we jogged to our Jeep, hopping in before the suits came close enough to do us harm. I cranked the motor and mashed the pedal down. Sand swirled behind us, spraying tiny shrapnel on the two men as we whizzed by. I sucked in a deep breath and held it, hoping they weren’t going to start waving guns. I recognized the white hair of the man who had visited my office; the other man was dark.
    We flew past the Jeeps. One had a suit-and-tie now standing beside it, and inside sat an older man in dark glasses and a Panama hat.
    When the sand settled behind us, the odd couple had shrunk to tiny stick figures in the distance running for their Jeeps. Before long the two Jeeps were filling our rear-view mirrors, where they stayed all the way back to Lana‘i City.

Seventeen

    When I swung into the pine-lined drive to the Lodge at Koele, one of Sun’s Jeeps swerved in behind us and almost spun. At remote Shipwreck Beach Maya and I were easy targets. But here at the Lodge, it would be harder to avoid witnesses.
    The Lodge at Koele rambled over acres of highland woods and tropical gardens and expansive lawns. Though its patina copper roof, cozy dormer windows, and wide shaded lanais echoed the plantation-style architecture of the humble village below, this palace was definitely not humble. The portico over the grand entrance displayed a larger-than-life hand-painted golden pineapple, the Hawaiian symbol of hospitality.
    With Sun at our backs, I was pinning my hopes on that legendary hospitality right now. Since there was no way to get back to Shipwreck Beach before nightfall without being followed, we’d best get a room.
    At the reception desk a bow-tied local woman greeted us cordially, with well-trained “Aloha.” It was Friday in prime season—when the American heartland was buried in snow—and we had no reservation.
    Predictably all standard rooms were booked. She straightened her tie, apologized, and then explained that the Lodge was happy to offer us, instead, some of its more luxurious accommodations. We could score a spacious “plantation” room with king-size poster bed for nearly four bills, or a two-bedroom suite for a grand.
Ho!
    “We’ll take the plantation room,” I said, without even glancing at Maya. I handed the receptionist my credit card and signed in: “Mr. and Mrs. Cooke.” Never mind that I had no wedding ring; my companion did.
    “A porter will assist you with your luggage.”
    “Thanks, we can manage.” I pointed to Maya’s overnight bag and then mumbled some line about preferring to travel light.
    We passed through the Lodge’s Southwest-inspired “Great Room,” an open-beamed expanse whose sunny skylights glowed on countless wingback chairs and sofas and oriental rugs, then across a wicker-chaired verandah. Out of the corner of my eye I saw two Jeeps pull under the Norfolks at the Lodge’s entrance, then one man jumped from each Jeep, both as overdressed and out of place on Lana‘i as they had been on