Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

entrance, surfers rode lazy little rollers. I envied those board riders,
surfing free.
    As the ferry docked I scanned countless cabs and vans and passenger cars flanking the Pioneer Inn, and on bordering Wharf and Hotel Streets. I focused momentarily on each vehicle, looking for telltale signs of Frank O. Sun. That I saw none was not reassuring.
    Maya and I disembarked and lost ourselves in the after-breakfast crowd on Front Street. Lahaina town was as lively as its harbor. Shops bustled with tourists eyeing “I Got Lei’d on Maui” t-shirts,
Cheeseburgers in Paradise
, time-share condos, you name it. On Front Street we boarded the Lahaina Trolley, which runs north to the resorts of Ka‘anapali, and blended in with the rest of the aloha shirts and bikinis on their way to work or play.
    The trolley, a mock cable car, breezed through town, then along the coast a few miles to Whaler’s Village at Ka‘anapali. From there we caught a shuttle up slope to tiny Kapalua Airport. On the tarmac stood a Twin Otter, my old friend: eighteen seats, two propellers, the boxy shape of a mini-van. Small, but enough airplane to fly us back to O‘ahu.
    Minutes later, the Twin Otter lifted off over the golden sands and pale jade reefs of Ka‘anapali’s famous beach, then the deep blue channel between Maui and the shadowy cliffs of Moloka‘i.
    “Open the sunscreen bottle,” I shouted into Maya’s ear above the engine roar.
    “Here . . . on the airplane?” She yelled back.
    We were seated at the rear of the Twin Otter—the last row by the door—enduring a ear-shattering din. The turboprops screamed, the cabin vibrated, the whole airplane audibly throbbed.
    “Nobody’s looking,” I yelled. I had already reassured myself that no one aboard appeared to be employed by Sun, and no one was manifesting much interest in how two resort workers were spending their Saturday off.
    Maya scanned the passengers, then she unscrewed the cap. She stuck her little finger in the tiny bottle neck and coaxed out the rolled paper.
    “It’s not a map,” she said, even before unrolling the small sheet. “It’s directions.”
    I suspected she had already peaked.
    The document was handwritten in blue-black ink on buff stationary imprinted “The Lodge at Koele,” where Maya and Corky had apparently spent a lost weekend. At the end was a little crude drawing of what looked like a church steeple. Corky had damn lousy penmanship. Or he must have scribbled this thing in a big hurry. It read:

    Hey, Babe,
    Drive to Waimea Bay. Look for the bell tower at the mission on the n– side of the bay. The stuff is in the tower. Go there when the church is open for mass on Sunday so you can climb the tower. At the top is a bench under the windows where you can s– the whole bay. Look under the bench seat.
    If you read this, it means I’m gone. Sorry I didn’t make it with you, Babe. But this map is your insurance policy.
    Luv ya,
    Corky

    “Is it what you expected?” I yelled into Maya’s ear over the roar of the turboprops.
    “Yes and no,” she said, sounding well rehearsed. “Corky took me to mass once at that little church by Waimea Bay. It was strange because he wasn’t religious. He was
spiritual
—but not conventionally religious. It all makes sense now.”
    “Sunday may be our best bet to climb the bell tower. But we’ll go have a look today anyway. Most Catholic churches hold a mass or two on Saturday evening.”
    After the Twin Otter touched down in Honolulu, we headed for the car rental agencies—no way could we stroll up to my Impala in the lot without being spotted. As I waited at the Hertz counter, craning my neck to spot any dark suits lurking, I called my office for messages. Off O‘ahu now for nearly twenty-four hours, I wondered if Summer had checked in.
    The first message was from Leimomi—she needed me. I had forgotten to return her last call. But it would have to wait longer still.
    There were three other messages.
    “Mr. Kai Cooke? Your Jeep is overdue.” The Lana‘i Plantation Store. I wondered how much not returning that Jeep was going to cost me.
Oh, well . . .
    The next message was from attorney Grossvendt. “Any news about my BMW convertible . . . ?”
    I had news: He would never see his beloved BMW again, unless Sun got busted and all his assets were seized. If so, the car would probably come back in pieces.
    The last message was in a low and heavily accented voice: “Mr. Cooke, I think you make some fatal