Read Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout for Free Online Page A

to escape the responsibilities of fatherhood . . .”
    “What? Does he remind you of your father? How he skipped out on you and your mother?” I was grasping at something, anything, to steer the conversation away from me, and remembered that Leimomi’s dad had been put away for dealing drugs.
    “Well, I do wonder about Daddy and I miss him, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”
    “What were you thinking?” I was starting to sweat.
    “Kai, I’m pregnant.” She watched my face for a response.
    “Are you sure?” I asked, my expression frozen.
    “I’m over a week late . . .” Leimomi blushed. “I’m always, I mean, I’m usually on time, like a clock.”
    “O.K.” My aloha shirt suddenly felt swampy. “Let’s not overreact . . . I mean . . . it’s perfectly natural. We’ll figure something out. Let’s stay calm.”
    “I’d love to have our baby, Kai,” she went on, her tears flowing now, “but this isn’t . . . the best time in my life . . . not until I finish my courses.”
    “Are you sure it isn’t a false alarm, Lei?” Maybe she had calculated wrong. She sometimes did that, confusing dates or dollar amounts. God, I hoped she was wrong.
    “I doubt it. I’m too long overdue.”
    I sat back in my chair and took another drink of beer, which now tasted pretty flat. I guess it was too late to slip away.

Seven

    I sat staring into my coffee at Denny’s in Waikiki the next morning. As much as I cared for Leimomi, I knew I didn’t want to be the father of her baby.
How did I let it go this far?
I tried to picture Leimomi in the same state as Summer, swollen with child, then shook the image out of my head.
    Nine o’clock came and went. Summer still hadn’t shown.
    I tried to focus on the case. What about that gravelly thick accent at the Kahala phone number Summer had given me? The voice didn’t fit her profile. If she or Corky had friends in Hawai‘i, they would more likely be people like themselves—transplanted Californians or
kama
‘aina haole
types, or maybe surfers who sounded local. But not wealthy foreigners who lived in O‘ahu’s poshest oceanside enclave.
    Through the steam swirling skyward from my cup I watched the morning flow of beach-goers and surfers filing down Kapahulu Avenue. No rain today. The sun glowed over Diamond Head and glinted on the tiny shore break of Waikiki Beach. I gazed down in front of Starbucks, figuring Summer would be hard to miss in the crowd. No sign of her.
    At quarter after nine a bakery van painted with a big red heart with the word “Love’s” inside it pulled to the curb by the ABC Store next to Starbucks. The driver began unloading donuts and sweet rolls and cinnamon buns destined for Denny’s
.
I sipped my coffee. Then a black Mercedes, maybe the same one that had followed me, pulled alongside the van. The van obstructed my view, so I couldn’t see who got out. Two doors slammed, then the Mercedes pulled away. I kept my eyes on the van until I heard, behind me, Summer’s whispering voice.
    “Mr. Cooke?” She edged into the booth across from me. Today’s maternity dress was baby blue, which did nice things for her eyes. “Have you found any evidence yet?” She cut straight to the chase.
    “I’m working on it. Yesterday I interviewed several surfers who saw Corky at various North Shore breaks. One named Ham Makanani was in the water Christmas Eve at Waimea and saw the whole thing. He doesn’t doubt your husband drowned, but it’s going to be tough to locate any tangible evidence.”
    “But isn’t tangible evidence what we need to convince Mr. Gold?”
    “More or less, and I will pursue every lead . . .” I thought for a moment about her husband’s alleged redhead girlfriend.
    “I hope you find something,” Summer glanced down at her enormous belly, “before the baby comes.”
    I followed her gaze and couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “Should you have flown here, Summer, with your baby due so soon?”
    “I had to make