Mahu Surfer (15 page)

“I think it’s really cool that you care enough to look into what happened to Lucie,” he said. “Too often nobody cares about people on the edges of society.”

“Was Lucie on the edge?”

“She came from a poor family. She didn’t even finish high school. But she didn’t want anybody to know that, and sometimes she told people that her family back in the Philippines was rich, that they were bankrolling her surfing career.”

“Did she lie a lot?”

Larry shrugged. “Sometimes. Occasionally she shoplifted, and I know once or twice she picked up tourists, had sex back at their hotel rooms, and stole their wallets. I wouldn’t say she had a lot of morals. And even though she was pretty, and smart, and talented, she wasn’t successful yet, and she didn’t have rich or influential friends to make sure that the police investigated her murder.”

“They investigated,” I said. “A friend of mine showed me the report. They just couldn’t find anyone who would be honest with them about her.”

“It’s hard,” Larry said.

George reappeared, with Heinekens for all three of us. “You talking about sex already?” he asked Larry.

“Get over yourself, George,” Larry said. “I’m talking about Lucie. According to Kimo, nobody would talk to the police about her.”

“Nobody asked me,” George said. “Not that I had that much to say. Or that I’d trust the cops too much anyway.”

“George has had a couple of run-ins with the police,” Larry said. “He’s a little too fond of having sex outdoors. With strangers.”

“Up yours.”

“You’ve been there.” Larry turned to me. “Always with a condom, though. You don’t know where that thing has been.”

“How’d you know Lucie?” I asked.

“We used to go shopping together. I was at Butterfly one day, hanging out with Brad, when she came in. We totally hit it off. She had great taste in clothes. We’d go down to the outlet mall in Waikele together and look for bargains.”

“She didn’t strike me as the bargain hunter type,” I said. “Butterfly certainly isn’t a discount operation.”

“Lucie loved labels,” Larry said. “More than she loved a bargain. Me, all I can do most places is browse, but I can actually buy at Waikele. Lucie’d go with me, help me pick out what worked best for my coloring, my build.”

He was dressed beautifully, I had to admit. His linen slacks caressed his body, and the Dolce & Gabbana logo t-shirt he wore seemed almost to have been custom-made. He wore suede shoes that looked like they were fresh from the box.

The conversation turned to more general topics, and I was just enjoying their company when Larry turned to George and said, “Did you ask him yet?”

“I was just about to when you showed up.”

“Ask me what?”

“If you were interested. In us.”

I must have looked as confused as I felt. “In a three-way,” George clarified. “You, me and Larry.”

I was nonplussed. “Wow, I’m flattered.”

“Good,” George said. “Let us flatter you some more, over at Larry’s place.”

“I’ve never done it with more than one guy,” I said. “And I can’t say I’ve met two better-looking guys up here, guys that I’d be more interested in experimenting with.”

“Then let’s go,” George said.

I felt like I was flailing around wildly for an excuse. My dick had already decided for me, and its vote was clear: get naked with Larry and George. But I was trying to learn to think with the big head, too, when it came to sex. And the big head was telling me I had a case to investigate, and I had one more guy to meet with that night. “I’m supposed to have dinner with Rik,” I said. “I don’t have any way to get in touch with him to cancel.”

“Fuck him,” George said. “Tomorrow night, if you want. That is, if you like ribs.”

“That’s George’s charming nickname for him,” Larry said. “Rik is so skinny you can see his ribs when he strips off his shirt.”

“The truth is that Brad wore me out last night.” I saw George and Larry raise eyebrows at each other. “Swear to God.” I thought for a moment, searching my fried brain cells for a detail that would convince them. “He said something like, ‘Jesus, open up those pearly gates because I’m coming!’”

Larry laughed. “Okay, you proved you’ve actually had sex with him. That’s Brad’s trademark line. But that doesn’t get you off the hook permanently.”

“I don’t mind being hooked,” I said.

“Larry’s a bottom and I’m a top,” George said. “So we can take good care of you.”

I was starting to feel like one of those zebras on the plains of Africa that’s been cut away from the herd, the predators circling. There was no reason why I shouldn’t have sex with two guys at the same time, if I wanted to. And there was no reason why the prospect should scare me. But somehow it did, which meant I would have to follow through with it—eventually. It’s the only way I know to overcome those things—to face up to them. For now, I could use the excuse of meeting Rik for dinner to get the hell out of that bar.

Trish Dishes

Rik and I had swapped email addresses, and he was supposed to send me a message confirming time and place for dinner. I had my laptop in my truck, so I swung past The Next Wave and discovered he had cancelled on me—he said he had to work late.

It was almost seven, too late for me to head back to the water. I didn’t want to go back in the bar, either, though my dick sure wanted to. But then it’s an unreliable monitor of what’s right and wrong, and besides, it had gotten an amazing workout the night before, courtesy of Brad. Like the rest of me, it could use a little R & R.

I decided to use the time productively, so I stayed at The Next Wave, where I began making copious notes on all the day’s conversations. Then I switched over to email. Sampson had replied to my message about Lucie’s apartment; he promised to get a detective out there to investigate. I responded to a bunch of messages from friends, worried about how I was doing. I had a stock message I wrote back, about how I was taking some time to think about my next step, and that I appreciated their support. It sucked to have to lie to people.

I was excited by the case, eager to solve it, and frustrated that I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. I had to put on a façade for my family and friends, telling them I was still getting my head together, and listen to their well-meaning advice. With every day that passed, I knew it would get harder to tell them the truth. Just one more reason why I had to settle this case quickly.

When I finished my emails, I tried to track down Harold Pincus, but there were just too many of men with that name, and I didn’t know the jurisdiction where he had been arrested. Shelving that idea, I did some computer searches on ice, cross referenced to Hawai‘i and the North Shore. The problem seemed to be worsening, in all the islands. Drug treatment programs reported more patients with methamphetamine problems, and for the first time more people entering programs reported problems with ice than with alcohol.

Child Protective Services estimated that 85 percent of their cases involved meth, and the number of methamphetamine-related deaths was climbing on O’ahu. I found a study which showed a jump in use by high school students as well.

On the mainland, users are more likely to inject methamphetamine, or speed, into their veins, but in Hawai‘i we tend to prefer the smokable form. Ice’s pleasurable and addictive effects are immediate, and can last up to twelve hours.  Most of the powdered drug was smuggled in from Mexico; processors used solvents to create the powerful, nearly pure crystalline version, which could be smoked.

Because meth is so powerful, it can be profitable even in small chunks, and smugglers often brought it in from the mainland on their bodies, in luggage, and even in hand-held coolers. I wondered if somehow all three of the surfers who’d attended Mexpipe had been recruited to bring some of the drug back to Hawai‘i, for processing into ice. That would explain the crystal meth that I found behind the medicine cabinet at Lucie’s apartment. That would also explain how all three had lots of extra cash upon their return.

Now I just had to find the person or persons who connected the three dead surfers to the ice business. Easy peasy.

With that revelation, I left The Next Wave. I knew the logical, rational thing to do would be to go back to Hibiscus House, take a long, hot shower, and crawl into bed. Alone. But I was tired, and lonely, and my body hurt in a dozen places. I wanted someone to be nice to me.

My truck seemed to know that, too, and very shortly I was in front of Brad Jacobson’s apartment building. From there, it was only a few steps up to his door, and a single press of the doorbell. He opened it, and the momentary look of confusion on his face was replaced by one of pure joy.

»
»
»

The next morning, Friday, I tried to get surfers to talk to me about drugs, but no one was willing to say anything. Finally, I pulled my board up on the sand and sat there, staring out at the water, trying to think of what to do next. I’d only been there for a few minutes when Trish came up and sat beside me. “Hey,” she said.

“Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I had to take extra shifts at the place where I work because one of the other waitresses has been sick.”

She sat back on the sand, and we watched the surfers together for a few minutes. I wondered how long it would take Trish to get around to what she wanted to tell me—and if we’d be interrupted again before she could say it. Even so, I knew I couldn’t rush her. We watched one guy carve on a monster wave, and I said, “He’s not bad.”

“He’s got a lot of talent but no discipline,” she said. “See how he gave up there? He could have gotten another turn out of that if he’d tried. But he’s getting better—six months ago he wouldn’t have gotten in as many turns as he did.”

“You must know all the regulars. Didn’t you tell me you were Mike Pratt’s girlfriend?”

“I loved him, okay?” she said fiercely, and I saw that she had started to cry. “And it just really pisses me off that he’s dead.”

I put my arm around her and she leaned into my chest, crying. An older couple on folding chairs a few feet away looked at us. They were wearing matching aloha shirts, and looked settled and comfortable—the kind of people who never set foot in the water. She had a pair of heavy duty binoculars on a string around her neck, and he was holding a camera with a big lens. I smiled at them and patted Trish’s shoulder, and they went back to watching the surfers.

“It’s tough losing somebody you care about,” I said, when Trish had recovered enough to sit up. “How long did you know Mike?”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and got a smudge of sand on her right cheek. “About two years. But he had this girlfriend back in New Jersey, and he didn’t break up with her until last year. Then it was another couple of months before we hooked up.”

“Did you go to Mexpipe with him?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I had to work. But I know something happened down there.”

“What do you think?”

“I couldn’t say exactly, but I knew him, and I knew something was wrong. He kept complaining about his board, about how his rhythm was off. Whenever I’d press him, he’d say I didn’t want to know about it.”

“But he never told you what was wrong?”

She shook her head. “When they came to take him away, I talked to the cops. I told them I thought there was something funny about his board, and that they should take it into their office and look it over. But this fat cop just laughed.”

“I’ve heard Mike was having problems with his board. What happened to it after that?”

“I took it to my house, and I left it outside, along the wall, with my boards and my housemates’ boards. But then the next day when I was at work, somebody walked off with it. That’s when I knew there was really something funny. I mean, whoever it was didn’t steal any other boards—just Mike’s.”

“Did you report the theft to the cops?”

“I wasn’t talking to those jerks again,” she said. “They care more about donut shops than about what happens out here.” She turned to me. “Look how they treated you. Assholes.”