Read Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout for Free Online

three other women on the shadowy backside of Punchbowl. A narrow, pot-holed driveway led past two other duplexes to her place, which sat amidst a red tangle of bougainvillea. Aside from this splash of color, her only view was of laundry hanging on the neighboring lanai.
    A full-time student with a part-time job, Leimomi was constantly strapped. My own threadbare life probably looked bright and glistening by comparison. At least I surfed and, through my work, traveled to the neighbor islands and sometimes to the mainland. Maybe that was part of my attractiveness to her?
    Swinging into her dusky lane, I felt the same surge of excitement that I always did approaching her place. And an equally strong twinge of guilt. While the dank duplex gave off a certain moldy, rotting odor, it also smelled like . . .
love
.
    This was the place Leimomi and I had discovered each other for the first time, her rusty bedsprings singing a high-pitched siren song that drowned out even her scratchy clock radio. The room got as steamy as a sauna. We stayed in bed through that first night and the whole next day—snoozing, whispering, making love. Leimomi cried. I comforted her. We made love again. Neither of us wanted to leave
.
By four in the afternoon we got so hungry we ordered two Domino’s pizzas and ate them both.
    With Leimomi’s euphoric first taste of love came, for me, an unspoken responsibility. After our breathless twenty-four hours together in bed, she glommed onto me like a faithful pet. Every time I turned around, she was there. I hadn’t counted on that. Sometimes, I admit, I longed for a way to slip away without hurting her.
    Leimomi was unusually quiet on the ride to dinner at Cafe Diamond Head. She had chosen the Pacific-Rim establishment with its reputation for flamboyant fusion cuisine. Filet mignon
wasabe
with mango-macadamia chutney staked on Kahuku sweet potatoes. That sort of thing. Its high prices did something toward assuaging my guilt.
    We sat at a table overlooking the soaring brow of the islands’ most famous crater, barely visible in the fading twilight. I glanced at the pricey wine list and ordered a beer. Leimomi did too. We raised our glasses and I toasted Leimomi’s beauty and good health. We were off to a good start. Her earlier upset seemed to be wearing off.
    Sipping my beer, I noticed two men in black suits sitting across from us who appeared, from their overly formal attire, to be
malihini
. They were an odd pair in this chic Honolulu restaurant, where casual aloha attire was the norm. They kept gazing toward Leimomi, which kind of flattered me. They’d probably never seen a more beautiful island girl.
    Just then I made the mistake of mentioning I had surfed that morning at Waimea Bay. The usually soft-spoken Leimomi reacted in a way that set my teeth on edge.
    “I wish you wouldn’t ride those huge waves,” she said stridently. “Surfers get killed, you know.”
    “I know.” I tried to put her mind at ease. “I’m working on a case involving that California surfer who died last Christmas Eve at Waimea. That’s why I was there.”
    “What’s to investigate?” she asked, still with a sharpness in her voice that surprised me.
    “His insurance company won’t pay because of some questions about his wipeout. Like, did he really die? Or was he faking it?”
    “What did you find out?”
    “Nothing for sure yet. But if he was trying to escape his pregnant wife and the responsibilities of fatherhood, I can think of a lot easier ways.”
    Leimomi gazed at me silently. Her cheeks colored. “Kai . . .” she began and then stopped.
    “What, Lei?” She was starting to worry me.
    “I’m thinking . . . “ She paused again and tears welled in her eyes. “No, I can’t burden you . . . until I’m sure . . .”
    “Leimomi, you already have.” I was getting agitated. She was dangling a carrot in front of me, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to bite it.
    “That surfer,” she started again, “trying