Surfing Detective 04 - Hanging Ten in Paris

mounds of Koko Head and Koko Crater. Walking to the restaurant from my car I watched a windsurfer etch a frothy white trail across the bay and remembered that I hadn’t heard from Scooter’s buddy, Brad. I would ask about that.
    A big guy with curls framing his baby-boy face smiled when I asked for Scooter. I should have looked at his nametag. He had fifty pounds on me, easy. I recalled Serena saying Scooter and his pal Brad had played high school football together. We sat in the empty waiting room during the lull between lunch and dinner.
    Scooter removed his server apron with meaty paws and said, “Too bad about Ryan.” His voice was soft for such a large man. And he sounded almost sincere.
    “Too bad,” I said.
    He then gave me a version of the same story I’d heard before. It was consistent with his earlier statement, but like the other students, he sounded rehearsed. Somewhere near the end of his spiel he said he hadn’t gone into Ryan’s room on the night he died.
    “But you did go into Ryan’s room at other times?” I asked.
    “Yeah, hanging out. We hung out in each other’s rooms.”
    Hanging? Hung?
Scooter seemed oblivious to his inappropriate choice of words. But I said nothing and pressed on.
    “Professor Van said you and Brad hit some clubs with Ryan,” I carried on, “but you didn’t do much with him after that. How come?”
    “We were into different stuff—that’s all.”
    “I’m curious, Scooter”—I shifted gears—“why does a business major with no background in French go to Paris and study French history?”
    “I dunno.” He looked bewildered. “A buddy of ours took Professor Van’s course and liked it, so Brad and I decided—why not go to Paris?”
    “Just like that?”
    “Yeah . . . well, we had to apply and get financial aid, but—”
    “You didn’t have trouble with the language?”
    “Not really. They spoke English in the courses we took.”
    “Serena said you did well in Professor Van’s course.”
    “Uh . . . ‘cause I liked it, I guess.”
    “No doubt,” I said. “Say, do you know how I can get in touch with Brad? He didn’t answer my email.”
    “Yeah, he’s working in Waikīkī at the Moana Surfrider— front desk.” Scooter rattled off Brad’s number.
    Finally I asked if Scooter knew of anyone who might want to hurt Ryan, and got the same response I had from the others—a startled look and the professed disbelief that such a fine person could be harmed by another.
    Leaving the restaurant, I turned back and saw Scooter pulling out his cell phone. He was calling Brad to tip him off that I was coming. So I waited.
    By the time I got back to my car, I tried Brad. He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me. And he didn’t sound enthusiastic when he agreed to meet at the Surfrider.

ten

    I parked at the foot of Diamond Head and walked down oceanfront Kalākaua Avenue into Waikīkī. The Surfrider was the first hotel on the beach. A balmy breeze wafted through the open-air lobby. Beyond it, tourists glistened on the white sand and bobbed in the turquoise sea. Two clerks were working the desk—a redheaded girl and a tall guy with ice-blue eyes. Brad had the looks of a TV anchorman and the physique of an NFL all-star. Even in his hotel uniform he looked powerful. A tight end to Scooter’s lineman.
    We shook hands and Brad said: “I can talk until we get traffic at the desk.” He turned to the redhead. “Uh, this is Amber.”
    Amber said, “Hi.”
    So we got the formalities out of the way and moved beyond her earshot.
    “Really too bad about Ryan,” Brad said, sounding like his buddy.
    “Too bad,” I said again. It was becoming my automatic response.
    “His death hit us all hard,” Brad continued, “and kind of pulled us together.”
    “How’s that?”
    Just then a twenty-something in a dripping bikini glided up to the desk. His eyes locked on her. I remembered Van’s commenting on Brad’s appetite for cabaret dancers. But the bikini went to Amber. A shadow crossed his face.
    “Look, I shouldn’t tell you,” he bent toward me and lowered his voice, “but you’ll probably find out anyway.”
    “Tell me what?” I asked.
    “About Heather and me. We started up a kind of thing in Paris.”
    “And?”
    “Well . . . man, she’s pregnant!”
    I tried to keep a straight face. Then I remembered the extra flesh Heather was carrying.
Could be.
    “Her roommate doesn’t even know,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly