Mahu Surfer (22 page)

An Explosive Situation

I spun gravel in the parking lot of The Next Wave, heading out to the Kam. All the way south I alternated between guilt over Brad’s death and worry over what Sampson would have to say to me. I made it to the plantation a few minutes before he did, and got out to look at the visitor’s center, a long, hipped-roof building with a vaguely colonial feel to it. A big sign advertised the world’s largest maze, as certified by the Guinness Book of World Records. I felt like this case was turning into a maze, and I was stuck somewhere inside it.

Sampson pulled up in a big silver Lexus. He had a folder in his hand when he got out of the car. “Hot off the press, just for you,” he said, handing it to me. “As much as we have so far on the latest victims.”

I stood there next to his car and flipped through a measly three pages. They’d gotten a quick ID on the guy with Brad. That was the good news. The bad news was that his name was Thomas Singer, and he was just a kid, twenty years old and a junior at UH. The worse news was that his father was a captain in the traffic division, which meant the pressure from inside the force to solve these murders was going to shoot through the roof.

We started walking, hoping to stretch both our legs and our cognitive powers. Sampson wore a gold short-sleeve polo shirt with khaki slacks, looking every inch the professional. I wore a pair of hibiscus-patterned board shorts, flip flops, and a t-shirt from the North Shore Cattle Company with an angry-looking black steer on it. No one would have made us for a pair of cops. “Any proof yet that they’re related to the previous three?” I asked.

“Same caliber weapon was used as on Ronald Chang. We’ll have to wait for ballistics tests to be sure, but my gut tells me they are.”

The fields around us were laden with pineapple plants, and we walked around an exhibit showing the different varieties of pineapple and where they were grown.

“Any particular reason?” I asked.

“Too many coincidences. Pratt and Zamora killed with the same weapon. Zamora and Chang killed on the same day. Then two more surfers killed in the same general area, with the same type of weapon used on Chang. You do the math.”

“Let me play devil’s advocate,” I said, stopping in front of a display of pineapples from Indonesia. “The first three were all involved somehow with professional surfing. I don’t recognize this kid’s name, so I’m willing to bet he wasn’t professional grade, at least not yet. The first three victims were all killed individually; this one is part of a pair. And by the way, Brad Jacobson wasn’t a surfer.”

“So the alternative is two different killers, both in the same area, with similar weapons and similar targets. My coincidence meter rings on that.”

Sampson toed the red ground with his black dress shoe. “Doc Takayama will do the autopsy tomorrow morning,” he said, “and I’ll get you the results as soon as I can. I already sent a detective over to the boy’s dorm room at UH to see what we can find out about him, and I’m talking to the parents myself as soon as I get back to town.”

“So this is a full-court press.”

Sampson nodded. “I have a daughter. If anything happened to her, I’d want to see the force do the same for me.”

I understood. We began to walk back toward the parking lot and our cars. Around us, tourist families were oohing and aahing over the tiny pineapples, the oddly-colored ones, the very idea that their morning juice began in fields like these.

“I’ll get on line as soon as I get back to Hale’iwa and see if I can find any record of the kid in any surfing competitions, and I’ll keep my ear to the ground and see who’s talking about him.” I hesitated for a minute. “Am I going to be able to talk to the local detectives at all?”

Sampson shook his head. “If they want to talk to you, tell them what you know about your friend. But don’t make any connections to the other murders, at least not yet. I’ll send you copies of whatever they discover.”

We stopped in front of his Lexus. “There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “Unintentionally, you’ve developed a personal connection to this case.”

Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to call me on the carpet for sleeping with Brad. My heart rate started to accelerate.

“Each and every member of the force has a personal life, Kimo. I’m not here to tell you how to run yours. And I’m very sympathetic to your situation—I have gay friends, and I’ve watched them go through all kinds of problems, both internally and with the world around them.” He leaned back against the car, crossing his arms in front of his polo shirt.

My throat was dry and all I could do was nod along.

“But you’re going to have to find a way to balance your personal life with your investigation. I’m not telling you to become a monk, but I will tell you what I would tell any detective who worked for me, gay or straight. It’s a bad idea to get personally involved with anyone you meet through a case, as long as the case is ongoing. Once a case is cleared, you want to reconnect with someone, that’s fine. But you see where things can go wrong—if Jacobson’s murder turns out to be connected to the first three, as I think it will be, your involvement with him only complicates matters.”

“I understand,” I said, struggling to get some moisture back in my mouth. “I know I made an error in judgment in starting a relationship with Brad. I guess I justified it at the time because he wasn’t a suspect, just a source of information. But I promise you I will be more careful in the future.”

I wanted to salute him, but out there in the parking lot, under the relentless sun, surrounded by red-skinned tourists and the hum of harvesting machinery, it didn’t seem right. So I shook his hand instead.

My heart rate had returned to normal by the time I got back to my truck. I was impressed by how skillfully Sampson had handled the situation—I didn’t feel that I’d been called on the carpet, though clearly he could have expressed a lot more anger with me. And I didn’t feel that I’d been discriminated against because I was gay; I knew straight detectives who had gotten personally involved in cases, in many different ways, and knew that it was a dangerous road to tread.

If I was going to be gay, I thought, as I waited for traffic to open up a way onto the Kam for me, I was going to have to learn to keep my personal life separate from my job. I needed to practice some restraint; I needed to keep my pants zipped for a while. Not just for my job, but for my own sanity.

Despite the gentleness of the reprimand, I was pretty shaken up. It had been a tough day so far, probably one of my worst, beginning with seeing Brad’s body on the beach. I won’t say I had fallen in love with him, because I hadn’t; I can’t even call him a friend, because I hadn’t known him for long enough.

But I had cared about him, and he had cared about me, and he was dead. Knowing that at least part of the responsibility for discovering who had killed him rested upon my shoulders was a heavy burden, and when it was added to the burdens I’d been accumulating and carrying for the past weeks, I started to feel like I was stumbling.

The only cure to that was to focus again on solving the murders. I knew even more clearly what was at stake: I wanted to find out who had killed the surfers, and who had killed Brad. And I wanted to earn the right to go back to Honolulu and pick up my career again.

I tuned in to the news radio station to see if there was anything about the bodies. Within minutes I heard, “Police announced the discovery of the nude bodies of two gay men, found on a North Shore beach just after sunrise,” the announcer read. “The two men, who are unidentified pending notification of relatives, are alleged to have met at a gay bar in Hale’iwa called Sugar’s and then retreated to the beach to consummate a sexual relationship.”

Sugar’s, I thought. I wondered who had seen the two of them there, besides Ari, who had mentioned to me only that Brad had been at Sugar’s and then left before I arrived.

“Jacobson, manager of an exclusive North Shore ladies’ clothing boutique, is reputed to have frequently picked up strangers for sex. Sources close to the investigation hinted that a former lover may have been jealous of Jacobson’s latest conquest.”

That nearly caused me to drive off the road. Did Brad have jealous former lovers floating around? He’d never mentioned one, nor had any of his friends.

Suddenly I realized they might be talking about me. I was, after all, a “former lover” of Brad’s, and though he was the one who had been jealous, people had seen us have an angry break-up at Waimea Bay Beach Park. It’s a strange feeling to hear about yourself on the news, even in a veiled reference, and unfortunately a feeling I was quite familiar with.

I’d have to find someone who was at Sugar’s the night before to tell me how it had all looked. Given the jungle drum hotline of Brad’s friends, who seemed to know where I was at all times, that shouldn’t be hard. All I had to do was sit back, and one of them would find me soon enough.

The news jumped on to the beaching of a killer whale off Lahaina, and I turned the radio off. My brain was still working on Brad’s murder by the time I turned into The Next Wave’s parking lot.

It was noon by then, and I desperately needed some caffeine. It had already been a long day, and I had a lot of work ahead of me. I got a grande raspberry mocha and laid my laptop out on a wooden table. By the time two hours had passed, I’d assembled all there was to know about Tommy Singer’s surfing career, and there wasn’t much there.

I’d also done some checking on Brad Jacobson. No one had shut off my access to the police computer system, or perhaps it had been shut off and Sampson had reinstated me. I was able to get into the network remotely and surf a couple of databases. Brad had been arrested once, a misdemeanor charge involving offering a blow job to an undercover agent in Honolulu two years before. He was as fastidious in his financial life as he’d been in his dress; he had a number of credit cards, all up to date, and he was almost finished paying the loan on his Camry. He had a small nest egg in mutual funds.

Frank, the bartender at the Drainpipe, came over. “You hear about those two guys they found out at Pipeline?”

“I was there,” I said. “Heard this girl screaming. I was the one who got somebody to call 911.” I paused. “You know either of them?”

“I think I might have known the one dude,” he said. “Brad. I think I met him once or twice with Lucie.”

That made sense. “How about the other one, the surfer?”

Frank shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

It was the same with everyone I talked to at The Next Wave. I hung around for a couple of hours, striking up conversations with people I recognized from the waves. It was an easy thing to do, and Brad and Tommy were on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Though several people claimed at least a passing acquaintance with Brad, no one seemed to know anything about Tommy.

That made it certain to me that he wasn’t a serious surfer. The world of the North Shore is a close one, as I’d already discovered, and everybody knew everybody else—or least knew someone who did. Tommy Singer was an outsider, a college kid who made it up on weekends, and hadn’t penetrated the inner circle of rhino chasers—the slang term for those who follow big water wherever they can.

It was frustrating, though. I knew there had to be a connection, but just couldn’t figure out what it was. Just as I was finishing, KVOL’s five o’clock news began playing from the TV by the cappuccino bar. I stood up as a bunch of other people gathered around to watch.

My brother’s station, always first with any scandalous news, led with coverage of the murders, as I expected. They began with a pan around the beach, showing surfers out at Pipeline, then focusing in on the hollow in the sand where the bodies had been found. Ruiz and Kawamoto had set up plastic traffic cones around the area, where the bodies had been found, and roped it off with yellow police tape.

Ralph Kim, the guy who’d interviewed me, had been dispatched up to the North Shore for a stand up. He was all smarmy professionalism, his crisply pressed aloha shirt a poor attempt to seem like a North Shore kind of guy. He repeated what I’d heard on the radio, describing Brad and Tommy and how they’d met.

“In a bizarre twist to the case,” Kim continued, “police have identified a lover of one of the dead men as former Honolulu police detective Kimo Kanapa’aka, who left the department in disgrace over the revelation of his homosexuality, and who has recently been seen at numerous locations on the North Shore.”

“Holy Shiite Muslim,” I heard a voice next to me say. “They got you, brah.”

I turned and saw Dario. He looked tired and drawn, and even the bright red aloha shirt he was wearing didn’t bring up his natural color. Everyone in the area had swiveled around to look at me. So much for keeping a low profile.