Mahu Surfer by Neil Plakcy

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.
     

Butterfly
     
    I surfed all day, and drove up to Butterfly just before six. It was Halloween, and the streets were full of little kids in ghost and pirate costumes. The North Shore Marketplace was decorated with fake pumpkins and orange-and-black banners.
     
    As soon as I arrived at the store, I realized I was in trouble. The dresses in the window were by Armani, Valentino, and Versace. A tiny purse studded with rhinestones had a price tag of $2400. The only recognizable label on my clothing was the Teva on my sandals; I wore a pair of board shorts whose pocket I had torn a few days before, and a T-shirt from Town and Country Surf Shop. Oh, and I’d forgotten to shave that morning in my hurry to get out on the water. In short, I looked like a moke , a native Hawaiian criminal more likely to smash the front window in and steal something than to walk in and shop for merchandise.
     
    I didn’t know what I’d hoped to achieve by going to Butterfly, and I was kicking myself for rushing in without thinking through a plan, when the door popped open and a guy in a black t-shirt and black slacks stuck his head out. “I know you!” he said, smiling. “You’re the gay cop!”
     
    “Busted.” I smiled and stuck my hand out. “Kimo Kanapa’aka.”
     
    “You are such a hero!” He shook my hand. “I’m Brad. Jacobson. It is so awesome to meet you!”
     
    “You work here?”
     
    He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s a living. Were you looking for something?”
     
    I decided to jump in. “Someone, more like. This girl I met at a surfing tournament. She told me she bought all her clothes here. I just moved up here, and she’s the only person I know in town. I thought—oh, it’s pretty dumb.”
     
    “No, what?”
     
    “I’ve been looking for her at the beach and I haven’t seen her. So I figured I might run into her around here.”
     
    “Come on inside.” Brad was in his late twenties, I figured, as I followed him into the store, which had the kind of elegant hush that comes from recessed lighting, thick pile carpeting, and price tags in the stratosphere. He wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome; his nose was crooked and his blond hair thinning, but he put himself together well. “What’s her name?”
     
    “Lucie,” I said. “Lucie Zamora.”
     
    “Oh, my God.” Brad clutched his heart. “You don’t know? Well, of course, you’ve been busy with your own troubles.”
     
    I tried to put surprise in my voice. “What?”
     
    “You’d better sit down.” He motioned me to an armchair that would have looked quite at home in my mother’s living room. I sat, and he pulled a similar chair up next to me. “She was killed! Shot down like a dog on the street.” Brad looked like he was ready to cry. “Oh, it was just awful.”
     
    I looked away from Brad, the way I’d observed the families of victims do when they heard the bad news, then when I looked back at him I rubbed my eyes and nose, body language that I knew conveyed disbelief. I let my voice get a little higher, and rushed the words out. “When did this happen?”
     
    “About a month ago. She was coming out of Club Zinc late at night, and somebody shot her.” He shook his head. “The police, of course, are clueless.” He smiled at me and touched my hand. “I’ll bet if they had you on the case, you’d already have the creep behind bars.”
     
    I took a deep breath, then put my hand up over my mouth, taking a moment to compose myself. I didn’t like faking emotions in front of