Frank Talk

I headed back north after that, driving straight to The Next Wave. I ordered an extra-large raspberry mocha, turned on my laptop and started going through my notes. I had spoken to a lot of people in a short time, and I needed to make some connections between them. Reviewing my conversations with Victor Texeira, the Changs, Will Wong, Michel Lewin and Mrs. Zamora, I began to get a clearer picture of the three surfers.

Lucie Zamora was the connection between Mike Pratt and Ronnie Chang. All three needed money; Mike and Lucie for surfing, Ronnie for dating Lucie. Somehow, Mexico, the Mexpipe competition, and Ronnie’s hacking skills had to be connected.

I had to learn more about Lucie. But how? I turned to the Internet, and began sifting through hundreds of Zamoras. I had just about given up, though I still had Lucie’s name on the screen when a skinny twenty-something guy with a goofy little patch of goatee on his chin flopped down next to me. “Hey, dude, you knew Lucie?” he asked.

My sensors went on alert. I shrugged nonchalantly. “A little. You?”

“Used to date her. Man, I am wiped.” He took a long drink of his cappuccino. “Need a caffeine fix something mad.”

“I hear you,” I said, holding up my own cup.

He took a deep sip, and then sighed. “You look really familiar. Were you at Mexpipe?”

I shook my head. “Never been.” I stuck out my hand. “Kimo.”

“Frank.” He looked at me again. “Pipeline?”

I nodded. “Just came up here two weeks ago, but I’ve been there pretty much every day.”

“Cool.”

“How was Mexpipe?” I asked.

“Pretty radical. I got some awesome waves. Didn’t finish in the money but I met Lucie. Man, she was a great chick.” I noticed his hangdog expression. “We were really grooving together, then we got back here and she got shot.”

“Shot?” I asked. “How bad?”

“Like dead, man.”

“Where did this happen?” I asked. “Up here in Hale’iwa?”

He nodded. “Right outside Club Zinc, about a month ago. She was wearing this pink dress that she loved, and it made her look so hot that all the guys were hitting on her. So I got mad and walked out. And somebody shot her as she was leaving. Probably to come look for me.”

I stared but he kept on going. “I keep thinking like, maybe if I had been with her, it wouldn’t have happened, you know? Like somehow it was my fault. But she had her secrets, you know?” He sighed and started tearing his coffee cup into small pieces. “I guess we all do.”

He lapsed into silence, just as I was hoping to hear what kind of secrets Lucie Zamora had. But I’ve interrogated a lot of people, and I had a feeling that if I waited, Frank would have more to say. “It’s tough,” I said. “I mean, you just start to get to know somebody, and then she’s gone. Makes you think.”

“Totally. I mean, I had a feeling she was into something funny.” He stopped tearing and leaned toward me. “For a chick who supposedly came from nothing, and who wasn’t earning anything on the circuit, she lived pretty large.”

“Surfing’s an expensive hobby.”

“Tell me about it. But this chick, she had all these designer dresses, and expensive jewelry and all. I mean, she was fine. And when we got back from Mexpipe, the first place she went was this store, Butterfly, to buy some more stuff.”

So like Mike and Ronnie, Lucie had come back from Mexico with money. Frank lapsed back into silence, so I said, “Where did you think she got the money?”

He shrugged. “She didn’t like to give out information. I just figured she had some kind of scam going. But I didn’t want to know what it was. I just want to surf, man. I’m not some kind of detective or anything. She wanted the bling bling, that’s okay by me. I’m just bummed it got her killed.”

“You think that’s what it was? A dangerous taste for the high life?”

“And doing the things you gotta do to keep that taste satisfied.” Frank crumpled the last shreds of his coffee cup. “Gotta go,” he said. “I tend bar over at the Drainpipe. Come by sometime, dude.”

“Sure.” I knew that I would, too, once I’d learned a little more about Lucie Zamora and had more pointed questions to ask. The dossier on her hadn’t mentioned a taste for designer labels, though that, combined with limited legal income, is often an indicator that there’s something fishy going on.

I went back to the computer, and read a long email from Harry complaining about the crappy surf conditions at Kuhio Beach Park, our usual Waikiki surf spot. Then I waded through all the luau-related email. The kids were excited about seeing their dads on the surfboards, while my mother and sisters-in-law negotiated the menu. Who would bring the chicken long rice, the lomi lomi salmon, and the haupia, a coconut-milk pudding? Haoa had an imu, a Hawaiian style barbecue pit, in his backyard, so he would bring the kalua pig, a detail which could not help but annoy Lui. The two of them were only two years apart and had been battling for supremacy since infancy.

When I finished, I sent an email to Sampson requesting any info that might indicate Lucie had expensive tastes—labels in her clothes or handbag, for starters. I looked up the store Frank had mentioned. Butterfly was a boutique in the North Shore Marketplace that sold designer-label clothing and accessories. I wasn’t sure how to approach it, though, without a badge.

I didn’t want to try the same tactic I’d used on Maui. There was too much chance that the news I was investigating could get back to the wrong ears—either the killer, or the police. I didn’t want either to know what I was doing.

It was nearly nine o’clock. I picked up some Mexican food and took it back to Hibiscus House. I was falling asleep as I ate. By the next morning, though, I had a plan. I’d surf for a while at Pipeline, then head up to Butterfly to see what I could learn about Lucie Zamora.