Surfing Detective 04 - Hanging Ten in Paris

look like servants’ quarters. Neat and tidy, but not fancy. In front stood a mango tree that Ryan no doubt climbed as a boy, and a dusty pickup with signs that said SONG MASONRY CONTRACTING.
    I stepped across the close-clipped grass to a covered
lānai
and knocked on the door. A handsome part-Hawaiian woman greeted me. She had the same luminous eyes and shy smile as her son. But the smile could not mask the sadness in her face.
    “Come in,” she said, looking too young to be the mother of a twenty-year-old.
    The living room continued the neat and tidy theme: rattan couch and chairs and coffee table, a few lamps, and an area rug. Except for a surfboard mounted like a trophy on one wall, which I took to be Ryan’s, that was it. And a guitar leaning against another wall. Also his?
    “Lono!” she called into a bedroom. A deeply-tanned local man ambled into the living room. He was wiry—all muscle and bone.
    “Sorry about your son.” I shook Mr. Song’s hand. It was warm but callused hard like concrete.
    “My son nevah wen’ kill himself,” he said in Pidgin. “Nevah!”
    “Lono . . .” His wife tried to calm him.
    “My family name been ruin by dis lie!” Mr. Song’s face reddened.
    “Why don’t we sit down,” Ryan’s mother said, her shy smile fading.
    We sat and Mrs. Song said, “Ryan was a serious boy, Mr. Cooke. He didn’t always put himself forward, but he was not weak. I know my own boy. I know he would never do this to his father and me.”
    “Was no coward!” Mr. Song cried. “My son nevah—” He buried his face in his hands.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” I said again. I’m sure he didn’t hear me.
    Mrs. Song kept her composure. “Ryan was sad when Marie went off with that French boy, but he didn’t take it so hard as everyone thinks.”
    “How do you know?” I asked.
    “He sent me emails,” she said. “He said, ‘I’m OK, Mom. Paris is cool.’ He said he was seeing the sights with a girl named Meighan who lived on the next floor.”
    “Do you still have the emails?”
    “Yes. And we have Ryan’s laptop. The college mailed it along with his things. Do you want to take it?”
    “Sure.” I had no idea what use the laptop might be, but with so little to go on I couldn’t afford to pass.
    “I’ll get it for you before you leave,” she said.
    We talked at length about Ryan’s relations with friends, family, and other students, and his frame of mind before he left for France. Then I asked, “Could Ryan have said he was okay just so you wouldn’t worry?”
    “We tell da truth in dis family.” Mr. Song uncovered his tear-streamed face. “Jus’ prove he nevah do ‘em.”
    “Honey . . . .” His wife put her hand on his shoulder.
    “Are you sure you want me to investigate?” I looked into his pained eyes.
    They both nodded.
    “Okay, I’ll need a retainer to get started,” I said. “Five hundred should do for now.” That was half my usual.
    Mrs. Song disappeared and then returned with a rusty Spam can. She pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, flattening them one by one on the coffee table. She counted to five hundred.
    I took the bills, but didn’t feel good about it.
    “One last thing.” I suddenly remembered something that was bothering me. “Why did Ryan take board shorts to France?”
    “He planned to surf at a place called Biarritz,” Mrs. Song said.
    “Sure, maybe that explains it,” I replied.
    We exchanged goodbyes, Mrs. Song gave me Ryan’s laptop, and I left.
    Walking to my car I realized that while Ryan’s intending to surf Biarritz explained why he brought board shorts to France, it didn’t explain why he had them on when he died. So I still had a problem.

four

    Returning to my Waikīkī Edgewater studio that night I unfolded the map of Paris Serena had given me and studied the dizzying array of streets and the river that wove through them. Why Parisians called one bank of the Seine right and the other left didn’t make sense to me. The orientation looked more north and south. But eventually I found the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter. A 5E was printed smack in the middle. That meant nothing to me, so I Googled it.

    5ème – Fifth Arrondissement –This neighborhood, the fabled Latin Quarter, takes its name from the Sorbonne, where Latin was the common tongue for all students during the Middle Ages. The neighborhood has the feel of a small village and students mix freely with professionals in its winding streets. Ernest Hemingway and