was enough. I knew already the North Shore prefix. So I had myself a complete number.
Bingo!
Jenny returned with a four-foot section of leash. I carefully studied the severed end. When a surfboard leash snaps in the heat of a wipeout, the broken surface looks irregular and jagged—with tiny peaks and valleys and burrs. But this leash appeared to have been sliced clean, as if with a knife. A few fine, curved parallel lines over the otherwise flat surface suggested the sawing movement of a sharp blade.
“Thanks for the cord,” I said. “It may come in handy.”
“A broken leash? Handy?”
I peeled off three of Summer’s rumpled Ben Franklin’s.
Jenny eyed the bills. “I love cash.”
“That makes two of us.”
With sliced leash and badly-patched candy cane in hand, I stepped from the surf shop beaming.
Nine
Nearly eleven feet of surfboard proved too much even for my spacious Chevy. Luckily, I always carry along a pair of soft roof racks. Within minutes I had positioned the racks on the wide teal roof, tightened the nylon straps inside the cabin, and lashed the candy-striped red board securely in place.
Back on Maunakea Street I maneuvered the lengthy gun between the cashier’s counter and refrigerated display cases at Fujiyama’s, and up the orange shag stairs. I got a few looks from Mrs. Fujiyama and her lei girls. Leimomi actually frowned. Did she think this telltale board proved her boyfriend had taken up big wave riding? Considering Leimomi’s “condition,” that probably made me as irresponsible to her as Corky McDahl had been. The parallel made me wince.
Inside my office I set Corky’s board on a rail along my longest wall and checked out the repair job. Amateur, as Surf’n’ Jenny had said. The patched board looked dappled like a roan pony, its dings unpainted, wavy, and irregular. I couldn’t believe the seller had put such a high price on a wreck like this.
Before examining it further, I noticed the familiar blinking light of my answering machine and checked my messages.
“Mr. Cooke,” said a singsong female voice, “this is Mr. DiCarlo’s secretary returning your call from his office in Costa Mesa, California. Mr. DiCarlo is out of town, but he would appreciate any information you could provide him about his stolen car . . .”
Mr. DiCarlo’s
stolen car? Was this a twice-stolen car—heisted from both DiCarlo and Grossvendt? And if the former hadn’t turned it in to the BMW dealership, who had?
Quickly I returned the secretary’s call.
“DiCarlo Inc.,” answered the same voice that had left the message.
I told her who I was and she became helpful.
“You’ve found Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
“Not exactly. I’ve found that it has been stolen—again. Not from Mr. DiCarlo, but from the car’s new owner here in Hawai‘i.”
“In Hawai‘i?” The singsong voice hit a high note.
“That’s right. Did Mr. DiCarlo ship his car to Honolulu?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, this is a bit of a coincidence—Mr. DiCarlo is vacationing in Hawai‘i.”
“That
is
a coincidence. Are you in touch with him?”
“I can be.”
“Would you give me his number or ask him to call me?”
“I’ll ask him to call you.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling like we were finally getting somewhere. “One last question. Does the name Corky McDahl sound at all familiar?”
“Corky?” She paused. “Isn’t he the fellow who washes Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
Bingo.
“He apparently had an auto detailing business in Newport Beach.“
“Then that’s him, yes, Corky cleaned Mr. DiCarlo’s car.”
“The BMW convertible—maroon with cream leather?”
“Yes.”
“Could Corky have taken that convertible to Hawai‘i?”
“Why would he do that? Why would Mr. DiCarlo allow him to?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure you can’t give me Mr. DiCarlo’s phone number in Hawai‘i?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Cooke. You sound very honest
Bingo!
Jenny returned with a four-foot section of leash. I carefully studied the severed end. When a surfboard leash snaps in the heat of a wipeout, the broken surface looks irregular and jagged—with tiny peaks and valleys and burrs. But this leash appeared to have been sliced clean, as if with a knife. A few fine, curved parallel lines over the otherwise flat surface suggested the sawing movement of a sharp blade.
“Thanks for the cord,” I said. “It may come in handy.”
“A broken leash? Handy?”
I peeled off three of Summer’s rumpled Ben Franklin’s.
Jenny eyed the bills. “I love cash.”
“That makes two of us.”
With sliced leash and badly-patched candy cane in hand, I stepped from the surf shop beaming.
Nine
Nearly eleven feet of surfboard proved too much even for my spacious Chevy. Luckily, I always carry along a pair of soft roof racks. Within minutes I had positioned the racks on the wide teal roof, tightened the nylon straps inside the cabin, and lashed the candy-striped red board securely in place.
Back on Maunakea Street I maneuvered the lengthy gun between the cashier’s counter and refrigerated display cases at Fujiyama’s, and up the orange shag stairs. I got a few looks from Mrs. Fujiyama and her lei girls. Leimomi actually frowned. Did she think this telltale board proved her boyfriend had taken up big wave riding? Considering Leimomi’s “condition,” that probably made me as irresponsible to her as Corky McDahl had been. The parallel made me wince.
Inside my office I set Corky’s board on a rail along my longest wall and checked out the repair job. Amateur, as Surf’n’ Jenny had said. The patched board looked dappled like a roan pony, its dings unpainted, wavy, and irregular. I couldn’t believe the seller had put such a high price on a wreck like this.
Before examining it further, I noticed the familiar blinking light of my answering machine and checked my messages.
“Mr. Cooke,” said a singsong female voice, “this is Mr. DiCarlo’s secretary returning your call from his office in Costa Mesa, California. Mr. DiCarlo is out of town, but he would appreciate any information you could provide him about his stolen car . . .”
Mr. DiCarlo’s
stolen car? Was this a twice-stolen car—heisted from both DiCarlo and Grossvendt? And if the former hadn’t turned it in to the BMW dealership, who had?
Quickly I returned the secretary’s call.
“DiCarlo Inc.,” answered the same voice that had left the message.
I told her who I was and she became helpful.
“You’ve found Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
“Not exactly. I’ve found that it has been stolen—again. Not from Mr. DiCarlo, but from the car’s new owner here in Hawai‘i.”
“In Hawai‘i?” The singsong voice hit a high note.
“That’s right. Did Mr. DiCarlo ship his car to Honolulu?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, this is a bit of a coincidence—Mr. DiCarlo is vacationing in Hawai‘i.”
“That
is
a coincidence. Are you in touch with him?”
“I can be.”
“Would you give me his number or ask him to call me?”
“I’ll ask him to call you.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling like we were finally getting somewhere. “One last question. Does the name Corky McDahl sound at all familiar?”
“Corky?” She paused. “Isn’t he the fellow who washes Mr. DiCarlo’s car?”
Bingo.
“He apparently had an auto detailing business in Newport Beach.“
“Then that’s him, yes, Corky cleaned Mr. DiCarlo’s car.”
“The BMW convertible—maroon with cream leather?”
“Yes.”
“Could Corky have taken that convertible to Hawai‘i?”
“Why would he do that? Why would Mr. DiCarlo allow him to?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure you can’t give me Mr. DiCarlo’s phone number in Hawai‘i?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Cooke. You sound very honest
Similar Books
