Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

grabbed my thighs so tightly that her nails left deep red impressions. I felt the sting, but didn’t care. By then I was floating on a blue cloud.
    Making love with someone I’d just met was kind of crazy. Or maybe schizo? There was a sense of knowing her intimately—the warmth of her touch, the taste of her skin and hair and private places, and the exquisite feel of her love—yet I hardly knew
her
at all. Who she was, how she lived, or what she lived for.
    Before the jasmine-scented euphoria of the blue bath faded, there was a knock at the door. “Room Service” said a male voice.
    “Did you order Room Service?” I whispered into drowsy Maya’s ear.
    “No, sweetie, I didn’t order anything,” she cooed back.
    I stepped dripping from the tub, wrapped a fluffy towel around me, and headed for the door.
    “Who are you looking for?” I asked through the thick wood.
    No reply.
    I heard a tray settle to the carpet and some china and silver clinking. Then I heard footsteps—not one pair but two or three—quick footsteps making tracks down the hallway from the door.
    I dialed Room Service. “Did you send a tray to our room?”
    “One moment, Sir . . . No, sir, Mr. Cooke. Nothing was sent to your room. Would like to order from the Room Service menu?”
    “No, thank you. A waiter apparently left a tray by mistake at our door. You might want to send someone for it.”
    “Yes, sir. Immediately.”
    As I slipped back into Maya’s warm blue world, I got to thinking.
What was on that tray?

Eighteen

    Inside the dimly lighted Lodge dining room the ambiance was Old World, island-style: crystal chandeliers glinting against dark paneling of koa and mango; landscapes of Provence hanging beside Hawaiian quilts and a lava rock fireplace. When the
maître d’
seated us, the pearly twilight was fading to grey and I was just hashing out my plan. It wasn’t an elegant plan—not so elegant as this high-toned eatery. No matter. So long as the plan worked.
    Smelling fresh from her jasmine bath, Maya hardly glanced at the menu and announced, “I’m a vegetarian,” then ordered portobello mushrooms with Waimanalo greens.
Whatevahs.
The four-star Pacific Rim establishment boasted on its menu fresh island ingredients with Continental flare—Moloka‘i venison capriccio, Lana‘i mixed pheasant and quail sausage with pinot noir sauce,
Onaga
and Kahuku mashed potato, and fancy wines starting at seventy clams. I went with the catch-of-the-day—fresh
Opakapaka
—grilled solo with no sauces, chutneys, salsas, or other fussy stuff. Just the way I like it.
    If Sun were watching us dine, which I’m sure he or one of his suits was, he kept himself hidden through the entire meal.

    The dinner check took my breath away.
Oh, well, Sun’s money.
I put the meal on our hotel tab and we strolled arm-in-arm back toward our room, past illuminated orchids and lily pads and cascading bougainvillea. Beyond the lighted pathway were bubbling blue spas, and beyond the spas were darkened golf links and hills and woods. Suddenly sensing someone behind us, I stopped under a torrent of bougainvillea and drew Maya to me. I whispered, “If we can make whoever’s following us think we’re heading back to bed—too involved with each other even to turn on a light—maybe we can slip them. Let’s put on a show.”
    Maya kissed me as her roving grey-green eyes glanced over my shoulder and found one of the bubbling spas. “Want to make love in the spa?”
    “Later.”
    Her slender fingers ran down the buttons of my aloha shirt, past swaying palms and hula dancers.
    “Later.” I said again, though she was getting good at distracting me. “Listen, if Sun’s man drops back, we can slip into the darkness and then run to the golf clubhouse. Up there on the rise.” I pointed. “Follow the cart path and stay behind the trees so no one can see you.”
    “You’re no fun.” Maya pinched my behind.
    “Have you forgotten why we’re here?” I reached into my khakis and pulled out one of the two penlights. “Take this. But don’t turn it on, if you can avoid it.”
    Behind us, our tail lit a cigarette and slowly edged away. Since we’d been at the Lodge, Sun’s men had appeared to be working in solo shifts, perhaps hoping not to arouse suspicion about their un-resort-like attire and conduct.
    “Let’s move,” I whispered. We split off and jogged through the maze of gardens and up the cart path toward the first fairway.
    Behind the clubhouse