Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout

into her seductions. I also felt oddly sad upon seeing her go. I watched as she stepped gracefully toward the terminal, then broke into a run. Was she running to or running from?
    Whatevahs.
Maya was gone.

    When I returned the rental car at the airport, it seemed as if we had it for days. I put the charge on a credit card, then walked to the parking garage to retrieve my Impala. I had no idea what Sun might have done with my classic Chevy. But the teal ‘69 Impala was still there, looking a little dusty but unharmed. I peeked under the car for explosive devices.
Nah, they wouldn’t waste the powder on me.
    It started up on the first try; I swung in line to pay for parking and suddenly realized my wallet was empty. The bill for parking nearly three days would be at least thirty dollars.
    When my turn at the window came I pulled in front of the attendant, a woman in a flowered mu‘umu‘u the size of a tent. “I was just dropping off a friend at the terminal,” I said. “I got in the wrong lane.”
    “Ticket?” she asked.
    “Don’t have one. I must have left it at the lot entrance.”
    A cloud crossed the attendant’s face. She scanned the thin layer of dust on my Impala’s hood. Obviously the car had sat several days in the garage. “Got to talk to one supahvisah.”
    “I’m really in a hurry,” I pleaded. “It wasn’t my fault. I mean it was, but I won’t do it again.”
    “Auwe!”
She let out an exasperated breath. Horns blew. The line of cars behind me was growing.
    “I return da favah someday, yeah?” I hauled out my pidgin, winked, and hoped for the best.
    She gave me serious “stink eye” then suddenly the gate went up.
    “Tanks, eh?” I drove away.
    Maunakea Street never looked better. I was glad to be home. I walked through the flower shop, saying hello to Mrs. Fujiyama, who peered at me sourly over her glasses. I glanced to the rear of the shop where were Chastity was working, and Joon and Blossom. No Leimomi.
    “Upstairs . . .” Mrs. Fujiyama said without apparent reference to anything. Did she mean Leimomi?
    I climbed the orange shag and marched past Madame Zenobia’s. The psychic shop was shut tight. Ahead I could see the full-color surfer on my door and, yes, someone was waiting, sitting on the floor, hunched over as if in pain.
    “Leimomi?”
    The woman turned, then slowly dragged herself up. She peered at me with violet eyes.
    “Corky’s alive,” Summer said. “I want you to find him.”
    “Are you OK?” I scanned her body for evidence of abuse. She appeared fine, though from her now even lower-slung burden, it looked like the baby might come any minute.
    “Corky didn’t die at Waimea.” Summer ignored my question. “He’s alive. And I need him now.” Her voice was still a whisper, but a determined one. She glanced down at her enormous tummy.
    I wondered if now was the time to quiz her about her association with Sun. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. She was unharmed and, by the looks of it, at this moment very in need. Besides, she was still my client and I had yet to produce her husband—dead or alive.
    “How do you know he’s alive?” I asked.
    “It’s an intuition—a strong intuition.”
    “OK, for argument sake, let’s say that Frank O. Sun did the unthinkable and let Corky live—where do we start looking?”
    “Is the surf up?”
    I should have thought of that, but I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in three days.
    “Give me a minute.” I opened the door to my office. The familiar mustiness of the place felt reassuring. “What about the baby?” I scanned again her bulging middle.
    She grimaced. “I’ve felt a few small cramps.”
    “Contractions? Do you need a hospital?”
    “Find Corky first. Then I’ll go to a hospital.”
    “Let’s talk.” I gestured to my client chair. She sat down as I walked behind my desk.
    “Somebody has to tell you this, Summer, even at this inopportune time.” I paused to gather my thoughts, but there was no gentle way to deliver them. “Corky may not want to see you as much as you want to see him. He thinks your baby isn’t his. He thinks it’s a Damon DiCarlo’s.”
    “This baby is Corky’s.” Summer peered deeply into my eyes without blinking. “Damon and I never made love. He asked but I refused. I’ve been faithful to Corky, despite what he thinks. There was never anyone else.”
    “I believe you.” I meant it.
    “I think we should go to Waimea Bay.” Summer looked at me anxiously.