doesn’t get you off the hook permanently.”
“I don’t mind being hooked,” I said.
“Larry’s a bottom and I’m a top,” George said. “So we can take good care of you.”
I was starting to feel like one of those zebras on the plains of Africa that’s been cut away from the herd, the predators circling. There was no reason why I shouldn’t have sex with two guys at the same time, if I wanted to. And there was no reason why the prospect should scare me. But somehow it did, which meant I would have to follow through with it-eventually. It’s the only way I know to overcome those things-to face up to them. For now, I could use the excuse of meeting Rik for dinner to get the hell out of that bar.
Trish Dishes
Rik and I had swapped email addresses, and he was supposed to send me a message confirming time and place for dinner. I had my laptop in my truck, so I swung past The Next Wave and discovered he had cancelled on me-he said he had to work late.
It was almost seven, too late for me to head back to the water. I didn’t want to go back in the bar, either, though my dick sure wanted to. But then it’s an unreliable monitor of what’s right and wrong, and besides, it had gotten an amazing workout the night before, courtesy of Brad. Like the rest of me, it could use a little R amp; R.
I decided to use the time productively, so I stayed at The Next Wave, where I began making copious notes on all the day’s conversations. Then I switched over to email. Sampson had replied to my message about Lucie’s apartment; he promised to get a detective out there to investigate. I responded to a bunch of messages from friends, worried about how I was doing. I had a stock message I wrote back, about how I was taking some time to think about my next step, and that I appreciated their support. It sucked to have to lie to people.
I was excited by the case, eager to solve it, and frustrated that I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. I had to put on a facade for my family and friends, telling them I was still getting my head together, and listen to their well-meaning advice. With every day that passed, I knew it would get harder to tell them the truth. Just one more reason why I had to settle this case quickly.
When I finished my emails, I tried to track down Harold Pincus, but there were just too many of men with that name, and I didn’t know the jurisdiction where he had been arrested. Shelving that idea, I did some computer searches on ice, cross referenced to Hawai‘i and the North Shore. The problem seemed to be worsening, in all the islands. Drug treatment programs reported more patients with methamphetamine problems, and for the first time more people entering programs reported problems with ice than with alcohol.
Child Protective Services estimated that 85 percent of their cases involved meth, and the number of methamphetamine-related deaths was climbing on O’ahu. I found a study which showed a jump in use by high school students as well.
On the mainland, users are more likely to inject methamphetamine, or speed, into their veins, but in Hawai‘i we tend to prefer the smokable form. Ice’s pleasurable and addictive effects are immediate, and can last up to twelve hours. Most of the powdered drug was smuggled in from Mexico; processors used solvents to create the powerful, nearly pure crystalline version, which could be smoked.
Because meth is so powerful, it can be profitable even in small chunks, and smugglers often brought it in from the mainland on their bodies, in luggage, and even in hand-held coolers. I wondered if somehow all three of the surfers who’d attended Mexpipe had been recruited to bring some of the drug back to Hawai‘i, for processing into ice. That would explain the crystal meth that I found behind the medicine cabinet at Lucie’s apartment. That would also explain how all three had lots of extra cash upon their return.
Now I just had to find the person or persons who connected the three dead surfers to the ice business. Easy peasy.
With that revelation, I left The Next Wave. I knew the logical, rational thing to do would be to go back to Hibiscus House, take a long, hot shower, and crawl into bed. Alone. But I was tired, and lonely, and my body hurt in a dozen places. I wanted someone to be nice to me.
My truck seemed to know that, too, and very shortly I was in front of Brad Jacobson’s apartment building. From there, it was only a few steps up to his door, and a single press of the doorbell. He opened it, and the momentary look of confusion on his face was replaced by one of pure joy. »
The next morning, Friday, I tried to get surfers to talk to me about drugs, but no one was willing to say anything. Finally, I pulled my board up on the sand and sat there, staring out at the water, trying to think of what to do next. I’d only been there for a few minutes when Trish came up and sat beside me. “Hey,” she said.
“Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I had to take extra shifts at the place where I work because one of the other waitresses has been sick.”
She sat back on the sand, and we watched the surfers together for a few minutes. I wondered how long it would take Trish to get around to what she wanted to tell me-and if we’d be interrupted again before she could say it. Even so, I knew I couldn’t rush her. We watched one guy carve on a monster wave, and I said, “He’s not bad.”
“He’s got a lot of talent but no discipline,” she said. “See how he gave up there? He could have gotten another turn out of that if he’d tried. But he’s getting better-six months ago he wouldn’t have gotten in as many turns as he did.”
“You must know all the regulars. Didn’t you tell me you were Mike Pratt’s girlfriend?”
“I loved him, okay?” she said fiercely, and I saw that she had started to cry. “And it just really pisses me off that he’s dead.”
I put my arm around her and she leaned into my chest, crying. An older couple on folding chairs a few feet away looked at us. They were wearing matching aloha shirts, and looked settled and comfortable-the kind of people who never set foot in the water. She had a pair of heavy duty binoculars on a string around her neck, and he was holding a camera with a big lens. I smiled at them and patted Trish’s shoulder, and they went back to watching the surfers.
“It’s tough losing somebody you care about,” I said, when Trish had recovered enough to sit up. “How long did you know Mike?”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and got a smudge of sand on her right cheek. “About two years. But he had this girlfriend back in New Jersey, and he didn’t break up with her until last year. Then it was another couple of months before we hooked up.”
“Did you go to Mexpipe with him?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I had to work. But I know something happened down there.”
“What do you think?”
“I couldn’t say exactly, but I knew him, and I knew something was wrong. He kept complaining about his board, about how his rhythm was off. Whenever I’d press him, he’d say I didn’t want to know about it.”
“But he never told you what was wrong?”
She shook her head. “When they came to take him away, I talked to the cops. I told them I thought there was something funny about his board, and that they should take it into their office and look it over. But this fat cop just laughed.”
“I’ve heard Mike was having problems with his board. What happened to it after that?”
“I took it to my house, and I left it outside, along the wall, with my boards and my housemates’ boards. But then the next day when I was at work, somebody walked off with it. That’s when I knew there was really something funny. I mean, whoever it was didn’t steal any other boards-just Mike’s.”
“Did you report the theft to the cops?”
“I wasn’t talking to those jerks again,” she said. “They care more about donut shops than about what happens out here.” She turned to me. “Look how they treated you. Assholes.”
“Some cops are better than others. I worked with a lot of good ones. A few bad ones, too, but you get that anywhere. Even surfing.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
