Storm drove directly to Rosie’s Diner, where she was already ten minutes late for brunch with Hamlin. She couldn’t have faced Buster DeSilva right then. Any questions she had for him would have revealed her newfound knowledge and her anguish and disappointment with Nahoa’s judgment.
She couldn’t help but stew over the story Warren had related. Evie had been afraid to tell Buster she’d missed her period—five of them, in fact. She’d just worn baggier clothing, which her father never questioned.
Though Warren and Justin deduced she was pregnant before Buster, they knew exactly when he caught on because one morning he appeared at work snarling and uncommunicative. At the dojo, he’d barked out the most rudimentary of commands to his classes and flattened unsuspecting students with lightning-fast moves. This had continued for about a month, when he’d apparently risen above his rage. He cheerfully informed Warren that he’d felt the baby move. After that, he gave frequent reports on the progress of the pregnancy. Class attendance rose, too, though Warren doubted it was because Buster had again become personable. Warren’s opinion, which was substantiated by Justin, was that many martial arts devotees have a streak of masochism. Buster’s reputation as a tough and skilled instructor had spread across the North Shore.
Storm went straight to where Hamlin sat. He had a pot of coffee on the table and the morning paper propped before him.
“Hi,” he said, and rose to greet her. “The food should be here any minute. I was afraid yours would get cold.” He gave her a second look. “What’s wrong?”
She told him. Hamlin sat back in his chair and listened without interruption, his face impassive, though the set of his mouth was grimmer than usual.
“Damn,” he said. “You’ve met this DeSilva?”
“Yes.” Storm paused while the waitress set their heaping, fragrant plates before them. Her appetite wasn’t what it had been an hour ago.
She tore off a corner of a tortilla and nibbled on it. “He’s an activist, but no one’s mentioned that he’s ever done anything violent.”
“Have you asked Brian Chang to run a check on him?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it after we eat.”
Storm ate about half her huevos rancheros and let Hamlin finish the rest. Since they’d come in two cars, they agreed to meet back at the cottage and drop one off before driving to the contest.
Storm called Brian before she got into the highway traffic, and asked him to check if DeSilva had an arrest record. Brian said he’d call her back, and Storm followed Hamlin back to the cottage. As she drove, she reflected on how everyone she’d met during the week connected to one another. Pua’s request to find who delivered the lei o manō had led to DeSilva, which coincided with Barstow’s problems with the man. Stephanie, Ben, Gabe, and even Goober were in the mix of people who’d had difficulties with Ken Matsumoto and/or Nahoa. Not necessarily both, though. She still had some digging to do.
Brian didn’t take long to ring her back. “Buster DeSilva got arrested for a civil disturbance about ten years ago. He and some other activists were evicted from some beach land near Ka‛a‛awa and resisted arrest.” He paused. “I know the arresting officer and he’s not usually a hothead. DeSilva must have done something he considered dangerous.”
“Thanks, Brian,” Storm said.
“You got anything you need to tell me?” Brian prodded.
“I don’t think so. One of the surf promoters said DeSilva had sent him some hostile letters. Wanted to know if I thought he should get a TRO.”
“Any threat of physical confrontation?”
“He said no.”
“He probably won’t get one without it.”
“That’s what I told him. But thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome. If I find out anything else, I might get to tell you in person. Leila, Robbie, and I’ll be out tomorrow late afternoon.”
“Great,” Storm said. They disconnected, and she crawled along behind Hamlin in slow-moving traffic. People were beginning to crowd the North Shore in anticipation of the contest, which was scheduled to take place at a break called Outside Log Cabins. The inner break, Log Cabins, was already closed out, unsurfable. Storm turned on her car radio to follow what was happening.
The Intrepid was following a format different from most surf contests. Sports enthusiasts breathlessly announced that, thanks to a storm surge and an unusually large swell along North Shore beaches, the contest could take place at a different break each day. This not only showcased O‛ahu’s spectacular beaches and its variety of surf conditions, but was a concession to the O‛ahu Surfing Alliance’s complaints that the holding periods closed beaches to non-contestants.
Hamlin waited for her at the front door. He unlocked it, stepped into the house, then looked and listened for any signs of a repeat break-in.
“I don’t think he’ll be back,” Storm said. “He either got the info he wanted, or found I didn’t have it.”
“Let’s hope so.” Hamlin went into the living room and turned on the television. “I saw some TV vans in that line of cars.”
“It’s a big event. The traffic’s going to get worse. We should probably get going.” She picked up the phone. “Let’s see if Sunny and Dede have left yet. They may have parking suggestions.”
Dede answered. “We were just leaving. Since we’re on the way, why don’t you come over here and we’ll drive together? I’ve got a friend who lives about a half-mile from Log cabins.”
Storm hung up and turned to Hamlin. “You’re going to meet Sunny and Dede.”
“The girls you told me about?” He looked very happy.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re spoken for.”
“I can look, can’t I?” Hamlin bounced his eyebrows.
“Sure, I will be.”
“I knew it,” he said, feigning disgruntlement. “All those young surfers.”
“Yeah,” Storm said, and waggled her eyebrows back.
When they got to the girls’ house, Sunny and Dede were outside, waiting by the van. Dede eyed Hamlin’s 1965 200SE convertible. “Let’s take your car.”
“Okay,” Hamlin said without hesitation. Storm knew that he’d have ridden in Sunny’s van without protest, but the spotless old Mercedes had been willed to him by a grateful client. He not only loved to drive it, she could see he relished the idea of driving a carload of beautiful women.
Dede directed Hamlin, who got a lot of amused and envious stares in the stop and go traffic, to a narrow residential road that ran parallel to Kamehameha Highway. When they got to the house she pointed out, the front yard already looked like a parking lot. Dede’s friend had been standing on the last patch of grass, and she watched them pull up with an expression that combined relief, impatience, and amusement.
“Thank God,” the young woman shouted at them. “Hey, nice car. You probably want to put the top up.”
Hamlin did, and they gathered their hats, binoculars, and water bottles before joining the throng of pedestrians marching along Kamehameha Highway. People trekked along the narrow shoulders of the highway like pilgrims on their way to Mecca, small packs of supplies slung over their backs. A nimbus of excitement moved along with them. The aura grew more charged as they got closer to the contest site and saw signs of the hoopla surrounding the event.
Television vans, studded with satellite dishes and antennae, already lined the highway. To get so close, they must have parked the day before, and some of the technicians who climbed in and out of the vehicles looked like they’d spent at least one night on site. Large Starbucks cups were apparently part of their gear. Razors weren’t.
The logistics of getting to the site kept the crowd from getting as unruly as the highway. There were no parking lots, and the road was lined with cars as far as they could see. Like the vans, anyone with a nearby spot had to have staked it out the day before.
Sunny apparently was thinking along the same lines as Storm, because she turned to Dede. “Thank heavens your friend saved us a spot. Some of these people won’t get in.”
“Yeah, a bicycle is better than a car when it comes to attending one of these,” Dede replied.
The four of them followed the majority of the spectators along a public beach access. It led through a stand of tall ironwood trees, which separated two large beachfront homes. Many of the arrivals paid no attention to the public walkway, and made their way across private yards and driveways.
Sunny led the way across a stretch of the beach to a makeshift hut, where a cluster of media personalities and TV camera operators came and went. A board that announced the teams, the color of their singlets, and their standings loomed behind it. Storm could see O’Reilly inside, waving his hands and gesticulating at one of the sports announcers.
On the way by, Storm could hear snatches of his diatribe. “…don’t give a fuck about any floating leis in their memories…let the goddamn girls cover the heart-warming stuff…” His voice sneered at the word “girls,” and Sunny and Dede exchanged glances.
Storm caught Hamlin’s eye. “A few hours ago, he was in his lavalava, making lattes,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “He was downright jovial, then.”
“High pressure job,” Hamlin said.
“Yeah.” Sunny jutted her chin toward O’Reilly’s partner, who was planted not far away on the sand. Barstow stood, feet planted in a wide stance, arms folded tightly across his chest. He glowered at Goober, whose back was to Storm and her friends. The muscles in Barstow’s jaw stood out in knots.
“Makes me tense just looking at him,” Dede said. “Let’s go farther down the beach and see if we can figure out who’s in the water.”
“Looks like the judges are sitting over there.” Storm pointed to a large, square tent that had been pitched on the sand in a prime spot.
“That’s a good place to hang,” Sunny said. “If any of us get separated in this crowd, let’s meet behind it.”
“Good idea,” said Storm. She squinted at the back of a wiry, dark-skinned man who had stopped to shake the hand of a surfer. Sure enough, when he turned to face the water, she could see it was Buster.
Storm took a deep breath. She’d had time to digest Warren’s news about Nahoa, and she figured now was the time to tackle Buster. He looked happy and relaxed. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Hamlin, who had put his binoculars to his eyes.
Before Storm reached Buster, though, a lovely woman holding a microphone intercepted him. Storm stopped dead in her tracks. Pua wore TV makeup and a tasteful dress. A graceful puakenikeni lei encircled her neck, and a cameraman hovered over her shoulder. Her hair drifted in the offshore breezes. She looked happy and relaxed, a magnet for the camera and anyone she approached to interview.
Pua saw Storm at the same time, and gave her a brilliant smile. Buster followed her gaze, and looked over his shoulder. He grinned, waved gaily, then turned back to Pua, who asked Buster about the conditions today’s surfers would have to deal with, then held the microphone out for his answer.
Overhead, a couple of helicopters hung above the shoreline, one of them emblazoned with the call letters of a TV station. Between the surf, the helicopters, and the blats of the contest announcer’s public address system, Storm could only hear snatches of their conversation. Buster said something about how the lateral current would pull the surfers and all their equipment toward Haleiwa, and then Storm lost the rest of his words in the noise.
She looked around at the media activity. This was turning into a well-publicized event. And there was Pua, in the middle of it, talking knowledgably about conditions, wave form, and prevailing currents. Some weather woman. Storm couldn’t wait to hear how she’d pulled this off.
Meanwhile, other camera operators honed in on the inevitable scantily clad beauties and buff beach boys. There were always a few. Naturally, the cameras ignored the majority of the spectators, who, like Storm, had dressed for the cool onshore breezes by pulling sweatshirts and jeans over their bathing suits. The bathing suits were an optimistic touch. No way did she want to get in surf conditions like the ones today.
Storm realized these shots would be transmitted across North America, which the morning’s paper announced was suffering its first major winter storm of the year. It might be warm compared to Wyoming and Saskatchewan, but no one was getting a tan that day. The swell was high and still rising. Arctic storms, part of the same weather system that swept across the continent, generated waves that grew as they accelerated, unimpeded, across the North Pacific. NOAA ocean buoys pinged their warning of these monsters, which barreled toward Hawai‛i’s reef system, a veritable welcome mat.
Impenetrable gray clouds draped the skies, and the surf, already approaching twenty feet, sent salty mist rolling across the shore and land. A tiny young woman, wearing a thong bikini that would fit in one of Storm’s B-sized bra cups, scampered by. The breadth of her lower back was tattooed with a hawk’s wings, and goosebumps pimpled her lithe and exposed body. Of course, the cameras that followed her like flies at a picnic wouldn’t see those.
DeSilva finished his interview and walked over to greet Storm. Pua mouthed “later” at her, and turned to a famous Australian big wave surfer, who towered above her, wearing a very pleased expression.
“Hi.” Storm intercepted DeSilva. “Do you know Pua?”
“I’d heard of her, but this is the first time I met her,” DeSilva said. “She’s my grandson’s auntie.”
“Um, I just heard about that.”
“I wondered if you knew,” DeSilva said. He gave her a wry half-smile.
“You must have been terribly upset with Nahoa.”
“I was, at first.” But he sounded cheerfully unperturbed. Storm watched his face carefully, but his eyes met hers without hesitation. “I thought about having him arrested,” he admitted.
“For what it’s worth, I thought Nahoa used terrible judgment.” The anger in her voice surprised her, but DeSilva just shrugged.
“Most people did,” he said. “But Evie was part of the act, and by the time I found out, it was too late to do anything about it. The little guy was on his way, and he needed a family to love. Why not us?” This time, his smile held a touch of sadness.
Storm wondered about DeSilva’s wife, Evie’s mother. Warren hadn’t said anything about her, and Storm hadn’t seen anyone else at the house.
As if he knew her thoughts, DeSilva spoke again. “My wife died in a traffic accident when Evie was five. My brother and sister live on Maui, so it was just the two of us most of the time.”
“Still, it must be hard for you and Evie to have a baby around.”
DeSilva squinted toward the edge of the beach, where two contestants gathered their gear to head into the waves. A shout had gone up from the crowd, and Storm noticed that Kimo Hitashi, who had been with Goober yesterday, was now paired with the tall Australian Pua had just interviewed.
“You know, she was never good at school before,” DeSilva continued. “Her grades have been better since Sparky was born. Like she’s starting to see a reason for it.”
“What about Nahoa? Did he accept any responsibility?”
Storm had been carefully watching DeSilva for his reply, so when his eyes slipped from her own gaze to something behind her head, she turned, though she sensed he was relieved at the distraction.
Goober was stomping toward them, and the scowl on his face would distract most people. He still wore the board shorts she’d seen that morning and had added a faded red sweatshirt to counteract the chilly day. His dreads were more matted than usual, and the wind, which swept from behind him, carried unwashed body odor. His arms were rigid and his hands clenched into fists. Though she and DeSilva stood shoulder to shoulder, Goober’s stare bore into Storm. So intense were his emotions, and unwavering was his focus, that she doubted he even saw DeSilva.
He marched right up to her. “Better watch yourself,” he said and grabbed her arm. He shoved something into her hand, then shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Without another word, he dashed away from the water, toward the tree line and beach homes.