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

convertible—a brand new one—out at the dock ready for pick up. That one must have had the black top I was remembering. Anyway, if the buyer could have waited one day—just one day—it would have been his.”
    “Did he wait?”
    “No, we never saw the man again.” The salesman arched his brows.
    I thanked him and found my way out. By then he was trying his charm again on the woman in heels.
    Down the street, parked alongside the curb, my old Impala looked ancient compared to those shiny BMWs.
It’s a classic,
I told myself.
A timeless piece of Americana.
Besides, my longboard fits right in.

Eight

    I hurried back to Maunakea Street and cracked my O‘ahu phone directory. William J. Grossvendt was listed—both a home phone with an ocean-side Portlock address in Hawai‘i Kai, and an office number on Bishop Street: Grossvendt, Weller, and Chang, Attorneys at Law. Bishop Street is where the swankiest attorneys in Honolulu hang their shingles, in the high-altitude offices of mirrored skyscrapers. Grossvendt certainly earned enough as an lawyer to purchase a new BMW, so why did he cheap out and buy a used one?
    Since it was a Wednesday morning I tried his office first. The phone rang twice and then an upbeat receptionist said, “Good Morning! Grossvendt, Weller, and Chang—specializing in trusts and wills.”
    “I’d like to speak with Mr. Grossvendt, please.”
    “One moment, sir.” The receptionist connected me, not to Mr. Grossvendt himself, but to a woman I assumed was his assistant or paralegal. She told me that the attorney was unavailable, but asked if I would like to leave a message. When I said I was a P.I. inquiring about Mr. Grossvendt’s BMW convertible, the woman abruptly stopped me in mid-sentence. “Hold, please.”
    Within seconds attorney William J. Grossvendt himself came on the line.
    “Mr. Cooke,” said a high, quavering voice, “you have information about my car?”
    “Actually, I was going to ask you for some information.”
    “Have you found it?” The attorney asked excitedly. “Have you found it?” He repeated himself rapidly and entreatingly like a boy who had lost his favorite toy.
    “Found what?”
    “My BMW convertible!” He said impatiently.
    “Is it missing?” I asked naively, hoping for more information.
    “Why, it was stolen from my parking garage in early January, not two days after I bought it. It’s been missing nearly a month. My assistant said you are a P.I.?” He sounded hopeful.
    “Yes. Does HPD have any leads?”
    “None,” the attorney said. “And it was a professional job. That car had all the high tech anti-theft devices money can buy.”
    “Sounds like this theft was more about that particular car than about you.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure.” His voice cracked. “I’ve had cars vandalized before—
keyed,
you know—and have received my share of threats, even death threats. Sometimes heirs cut from Grandma’s will blame me, the attorney. They think I’ve taken their money. When my BMW was stolen, I had in mind a few people who might be responsible.”
    “I suppose there’s a chance of that.”
    “So what’s in this for you, Mr. Cooke?” the attorney asked in his anxious voice.
    “I’m pursuing an entirely different case, but I think your car may somehow be related to it. The death of a California surfer at Waimea Bay last Christmas Eve.”
    “I heard about that. He died on a huge wave, right?”
    “Right. And he was driving a BMW around on the North Shore before his wipeout. The car has been missing since his death—maybe the same car you bought.”
    “I really loved that car. And I’d love to have it back.”
    “Why don’t you take the insurance money and buy another? I bet the dealership could get one just like it.”
    “I’m sentimental about that very car. My girlfriend helped me pick it out,” he hit a somber note. “And she’s since left the islands.”
    “I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
    “Much