Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout by Chip Hughes Read Free Book Online

grand to drop on a car, this would be a nice place to start.
    I had paid only one grand for my thirty-year-old Impala and the grieving widow who sold it to me was very pleased to get that. The car would have gone for less, but somebody had told her it was a classic. A single alloy wheel on the titanium metallic sport sedan now in my gaze probably cost as much as my old Chevy. Does that mean the BMW would be more fun? I don’t know. But as long as I can ride waves, any wheels that can get me and my board to the beach will do fine.
    “Can I put you behind the wheel of that sensational M5?” The grinning salesman approached me with his right arm extended. “You must be Mr. Cooke?”
    “Yes,” I said, shaking his hand, “But one problem—to buy it I’d have to sell my soul.”
    “Well,” the salesman’s smile broadened, “how much is your soul worth?”
    “Actually,” I said, starting my spiel, “As I mentioned on the phone, I‘m trying to trace a certain BMW. I’m a private investigator.”
    His smile faded. “Oh, well . . . if I can help.”
    I handed him my card. When he glanced at the longboard rider, he perked up again. “Do you know anything about the car?”
    “Not much. The deceased’s wife can remember only one BMW her husband detailed in his business in California.”
    “California?” The salesman looked dubious.
    “I know. It’s a long shot.”
    “Well, we do buy and sell a lot of cars—and some have out of state plates, occasionally.”
    “The car she remembers was a new or nearly new convertible—maroon with cream-colored leather and top.”
    The salesman seemed to be scanning his memory. “A few months ago we took in a maroon convertible, but with a black top and no California plates.”
    “It’s worth following up.”
    “I didn’t do the transaction. Another salesman did who’s since moved on. Hold on a minute and I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked from the showroom and disappeared into an inner office.
    Minutes later he returned with a handful of stapled forms. “Let’s see, we took in the maroon convertible in December . . . December thirteenth . . . and I was wrong about the top. It
was
tan, not black.“ He studied some figures. “Boy, we got a deal on this.” He flipped between pages. “It looks like the seller took way below wholesale bluebook for the vehicle—less than he had to if he would have done his homework. And I remember the car was in great shape.”
    “What was the owner’s name?”
    “DiCarlo.” The salesman glanced at the colored forms. “Damon DiCarlo of Balboa, California.”
    “Damn.”
    “Not the guy you’re looking for?”
    “Afraid not.”
    “The car was registered in California,” the salesman continued. “And had California plates.”
    Just then a woman in a silk dress and spiked heels—someone who looked like she could afford a new BMW—strolled in.
    “Excuse me a moment,” said the salesman as he eagerly approached his new prospect. They talked briefly and then the woman must have uttered something to the effect of “just looking,” and the salesman backed off. He returned to me.
    “So what happened to this maroon convertible?” I asked as he walked toward me.
    “We sold it to an attorney on Bishop Street. But since he’s a current customer, technically, I can’t give you his name.” The salesman held a pink form carelessly within my view, his thumb next to the words “William J. Grossvendt.”
    “I understand.” I said. “Confidentiality and all that.”
    The salesman winked. Then he seemed to have a flash of inspiration. “Now I remember—not one hour after the new buyer signed for the car, a foreign gentleman came in and wanted it—wanted it badly. He offered to pay more, to fork over a new retail price if I would sell it to him. But I couldn’t, of course, because the car was already sold.”
    “Why do you think he wanted it so much?”
    “Well, the strange thing was, we had another maroon