Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

mistake. I say ‘Investigation over.’ And I mean
over.”
    Frank O. Sun.
I envisioned his dark glasses and Panama hat.
    “You are paid handsomely. Is this not true? I give you one last chance . . . like a gentleman, yes? A word to the wise. Consider most carefully.“
    I heard a click. No message from Summer.
    Maya and I piled into a Hertz Ford and drove to Waimea Bay. We didn’t talk much. Just as well. I was thinking about Summer and wondering whether my beating Sun to the ice would help her, or hurt her. I hoped the former. But that part of it was now out of my control.
    As we pulled onto the H-1 ramp, I checked the rear view mirrors. If Sun knew we had the only map to his missing treasure, he wouldn’t let us out of his sight for long. He had to be back there somewhere.
    When we got to the bay, Kamehameha Highway surrounding it was choked with traffic. I braked and we were stopped momentarily on the ridge. The air was pregnant with mist. Spectators, two and three and four deep, lined the road gawking at the drama below.
    Waimea was breaking!
    The whole crew was out. Big wave legends and newcomers and wannabes. A dozen surfers on stiletto-like big guns stroked for each massive swell. The sets looked good. Eighteen to twenty feet, I estimated.
    Nearly every surfer on earth knows the view from this ridge. The classic scene is portrayed often in the surf media —the horseshoe-shaped bay, the mountainous waves, and their daring riders. And in the background, always, rises the mission’s bell tower, higher than the highest winter waves
.
    That surfer Corky McDahl had chosen this tower in which to secret away his treasure, his deliverance, his salvation, made perfect sense. As it loomed into view, the huge monolith took on new meaning for me: the end of the line for this twisted and deadly treasure hunt.
    We crawled in the traffic, a solid line of cars and vans and trucks wrapping around the bay. Finally passing the beach park entrance, where police were turning vehicles away, we crossed Waimea stream and curved around the bay’s north side.
    The gravel lot in front of the mission looked deserted.
No Saturday mass?
I got out and stepped to the church. It was locked up tight. The front doors were bolted, as were the side entrances. And the bell tower.
    I walked around the building until I found a sign: “Mass Every Sunday—7:30 and 9:30 a.m.”
    Corky had been right. Our treasure hunt would have to wait until tomorrow.

Twenty-One

    We followed Kamehameha Highway north past ‘Ehukai and Sunset. Both breaks, like Waimea, were cranking and the highway and beaches packed.
    At Kahuku Point, the highway bent east and then south to La‘ie, where a narrow side road marked by a single sign led
makai
to the Malaekahana Bay campgrounds. We turned in. Malaekahana’s tranquil beachside campsites in February lay mostly empty, unlike in spring and summer when tents sprout like wild mushrooms. Technically, a state permit is required to camp at Malaekahana, which means driving downtown to Punchbowl Street. We had no time for that.
    “Do you like sleeping on the sand?” I asked Maya.
    She knit her brows. Surprisingly, the footloose redhead didn’t appear to relish the idea. She didn’t even suggest sex on the beach.
    “It’s not exactly the Lodge at Koele,” I said, “but at least there are cold showers and Sun shouldn’t look for us here.”
    Strong trades bent the ironwoods along the shore as we stepped from the car onto a bed of their pine-like needles, within a stone’s throw of the rumbling surf. It was wild out there. Wet and wild.
    I borrowed Maya’s cell and called Tommy Woo. But before punching in his number, I left her at the campsite and hiked to the restrooms. I didn’t want her to hear the details of my dealings with Sun.
    After Tommy told his obligatory first joke, I gave him Sun’s telephone number and asked Tommy to call him. I wanted to contact Sun personally, but not reveal our location or that I was calling from Maya’s phone.
    “Block your caller i.d.”
    “It’s always blocked,” Tommy replied. “Let’s keep it simple. You talk and I’ll record your voice and play it back for Sun.”
    “OK,” I took a breath. “Here goes . . . .”
    “Recording,” Tommy said.
    “Frank O. Sun, listen up: Harm Summer McDahl and you will never see your ice again. I’m not talking more until you let Summer go . . . .”
    I thanked Tommy, then left a voice mail for Detective Brian Tong at