Surfing Detective 04 - Hanging Ten in Paris Read online

  Hanging Ten in Paris

  or

  The Last Ride of Ryan Song

  A Surfing Detective Novelette

  Chip Hughes

  Slate Ridge Press

  SLATE RIDGE PRESS

  P.O. Box 1886

  Kailua, HI 96734

  [email protected]

  © Chip Hughes 2012

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Slate Ridge Press.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  epilogue

  About the Author

  For Miriam and Alan

  Who showed me a Paris I’d never seen before

  and will never see again.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks once again to my wife Charlene for reading and commenting on Hanging Ten in Paris, and for being my partner on life’s many journeys. To Stu Hilt, the generous, humble, and brilliant Honolulu private detective who has guided me through every Surfing Detective mystery, this one included. To Christine Matthews for editing an early version of the piece. And to Lorna and Shel Hershinow and Laurie Tomchak for providing invaluable editorial advice. Mahalo to John Michener of Mediaspring for creating the e-book cover and converting the text for digital distribution. And finally to Miriam Fuchs and Alan Holzman, without whom this Surfing Detective mystery would not have been written.

  Preface

  The idea behind Hanging Ten in Paris geminated when I was in that city during the autumn of 2009, after the recent passing of my mother. Though the occasion for this sojourn was to celebrate in grand style the birthday of a dear friend, my mood was understandably somber and I could not shake the dark omnipresence of death. In this atmosphere of sadness and gloom, one evening in a restaurant in the Latin Quarter near the Pantheon I observed a table of a dozen diners—all, except one, American students. The one exception was also an American, a man of at least twice their age. The man could only have been their professor, and their dining together a celebratory event during a study abroad term in Paris.

  I knew this scene well because the year before I had taken such a group to study in London. My students all had come from University of Hawai‘i, where I taught at the time, some having never before left the islands. As might be expected, a few had problems adjusting to a new culture and a very different climate—it was January when we arrived and spitting snow. My job was to help them through these adjustments and to ensure that each returned to Hawai‘i alive and well. All did, thankfully. But I had heard horror stories from previous terms.

  Glancing at the dozen students dining together that evening in Paris, my perceptions still clouded by gloom, I began to imagine the worst: What if one of them turned up dead in some tragic and shocking way?

  This bleak question followed me through my last days in Paris, until I finally tried to answer it in the form of a Surfing Detective mystery. Then I encountered a problem. Why would Kai Cooke investigate a death in Paris? He didn’t speak French. He’d never been to France. And his normal sphere of operations was the six inhabited Hawaiian Islands. My PI was therefore an unlikely detective to take the case.

  I was stuck. Until I saw two connections between him and the proposed victim: Ryan Song, like Kai, would be from Hawai‘i and he would be a surfer. Then I pieced together a scenario in which Kai would investigate Ryan’s death some months later, upon the request of his parents. And due to the Songs’ limited means, Kai would conduct his inquiry without ever leaving the islands. No trip to Paris. That meant a challenging case. How would the PI reconstruct a sequence of events that occurred months earlier and seven thousand miles away?

  Another, lesser, problem was the matter of length. From the beginning I had conceived the case of Ryan Song as a short story rather than a novel. This would mark, in fact, the first time I had attempted a Surfing Detective mystery in this compact form. When I began to write, the case kept growing and growing—beyond the bounds of the short story, but not reaching the length of the novel, or even the novella. So what did I have—a long story? I was pleased to rediscover the term novelette, whose length is midway between the short story and novella.

  Novelette describes well Hanging Ten in Paris. The advantages of this form are three: it invites us to see Kai Cooke working a case in more depth than we could in a short story; it has the focus and brevity that allows us to read from beginning to end at one sitting; and, finally, it offers those unfamiliar with the series the opportunity to become acquainted, with little time or expense.

  one

  “What the hell did you do?”

  “Get out of my room!” he shouted.

  They struggled, knocking over a small table, anger raging as they fell and he landed hard on the floor.

  “I told you, we all told you to shut your fat face!”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. No use talking anymore.

  “Oh,my God! Is he dead?”

  * * *

  “It’s Kai Cooke, the Surfing Detective.” My arrival was announced by an assistant to Serena Wright, Director of International Studies at Paradise College in Honolulu.

  “Quite sad about Ryan,” Serena said as I took her hand. I stood almost a foot over her, but what she lacked in stature, she made up in intelligence. She was fortyish, British, and very bright. “I only wish we could put this behind us, Kai.”

  “The Songs are no doubt grieving,” I said as I sat down across from her.

  “That’s not the problem,” she said. “They don’t believe Ryan killed himself. And they think that you—a surfer, like Ryan, and a private detective—can somehow prove he didn’t. I tried the dissuade them, but it was no use.”

  “Thanks for the gig,” I said.

  “Your broad shoulders and sun-bleached hair should convince them you’re the genuine article.”

  I almost said, And the shark bite on my chest? But replied: “You’re too kind.”

  She stood, opened a file drawer, and handed me a sheet with color headshots of Ryan and his fellow students from the Paris program—four girls and three guys—seven in all. There was a name under each photo and contact information. Serena pointed to a handsome boy of about twenty with luminous eyes, short spiky hair, and a shy smile. His face was open and sunny.

  “That’s Ryan,” she said.

  “Looks like a nice, happy kid,” I said.

  “He was quiet,” she said. “I think that’s why he fell for Marie. She’s the life of the party.” Serena pointed to an attractive island girl with bobbed hair, grey eyes, intelligent brow, and a playful smirk. She looked full of fun.

  “Opposites attract,” I said.

  “Ryan was clever too. His French was the best in the group, next to Marie’s, and he played the guitar and had a gorgeous voice. The girls adored him. They took his death very hard. Marie was devastated.”

  “And the guys?”

  “I doubt it was much easier for them. Or for Russ . . . uh, Professor Van.”

  “What a shame,” I said.

  “If only Marie hadn’t met that fellow Pierre in Paris . . . .” Serena filled me in, then opened her f
ile drawer again and removed a folder labeled Ryan Song. “Brace yourself, Kai.” She handed me a photo.

  It was Ryan hanging. He had on a pair of board shorts. No shirt. No shoes. His ten toes appeared to dangle over the floor. His face was almost blue and his head turned at an unnatural angle. Beneath him lay a note and a snapshot of the girl I assumed was Marie. A small table was tipped nearby on its side. The rope around his neck was tied to a chandelier connected to the ceiling by a chain. The photo was stamped: Prefecture de Police.

  “Sad,” I said. But something else was bothering me. Ryan’s attire. He looked like any surfer walking down Kalākaua Avenue in Waikīkī. But he was in Paris. In winter. Board shorts? No shirt or shoes? I didn’t say anything about it, just asked, “How did Ryan get on with the other students?”

  “Well,” she said, “with everyone.” She shook her head. “Here’s a copy of the suicide note.” It was computer-printed in bold caps: AU REVOIR, MARIE.

  “I don’t speak French,” I admitted. “I’ve never even been to France.”

  “Au revoir means goodbye,” Serena said. “You won’t have to know any French. And on the Songs’ budget, no way you’re going to Paris.”

  “Okay, then why did Ryan print the note? Why not write it by hand?

  “Printed in bold caps to make a bold statement?” Serena said.

  “Seems kind of impersonal,” I said. “Where did you get the note?”

  “The college requested Ryan’s case file from the Paris police,” Serena said. “What was passed on to me is in this folder: The photo, the note, and the police report—translated into English. And here’s a DVD about our Paris program and a tourist map.” She unfolded on her desk the map displaying major historical sites and buildings.

  “So this is Paris?” I gazed at the dizzying maze of streets, each called Rue this or that, and the River Seine that wound through them.

  “Our program is at the University of Paris—the Sorbonne—in the Latin Quarter. It’s here.” She put her finger on a spot just below the river. “On the Left Bank in the Fifth Arrondissement—she pronounced it ah-rhone-dees-mo—near the Pantheon, that grand domed building.”

  “I see it.” It was in a square called Place du Panthéon.

  “Marie moved into Pierre’s apartment on that square,” Serena said.

  “Is she there now?” I asked.

  “No, she’s traveling around Europe with him,” Serena said. “Anyway, we house our students nearby in a glorious old townhouse divided into flats at forty-four Rue des Écoles.”

  “Rue des what?”

  “Des Écoles”—she pronounced it days-eh-coal—“means, roughly, the street of the schools, because the major centers of learning are there. We rent the third and fourth floors. There is a small lift . . . uh, an elevator . . . that stops only on those two floors. Nobody can ride the lift without an ID card—for the safety and security of our students.”

  “Only your students had cards?”

  “Right. And Russ—Professor Van. And the custodial staff.”

  “So you had seven students on two floors, which only they had access to?”

  “Correct. The floors were also connected by a stairway, but only these two floors. Ryan and Marie both started in single rooms on the third. Until she left, of course.”

  “Convenient,” I said.

  Serena shrugged. “Two other students, Kim and Heather, close friends and English majors from O‘ahu, shared a double on the third floor.”

  “And on the fourth?”

  “Three more: Meighan, a French major on scholarship from Michigan, in a single room and Brad and Scooter, business majors and football mates from California, in a double. The two mates weren’t stellar students, but did well in Russ’s French history course, and have since graduated. Actually, all the students did well. I wasn’t surprised. We’ve found studying abroad motivates even less-than-stellar students, and the program tends to draw serious students to begin with. I have Russ’s grade records if you’d like to see for yourself.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “For now, I’d just like to talk to the professor.”

  “He’s beastly busy right at present, but I’m sure he’ll oblige,” she said. “He’s applying for the Hilo Hattie Chair. It means more money and less teaching. He’s competing against his bitter rival, Professor Blunt from American Studies.” She raised her brows. “High stakes.”

  “I’ll wish Professor Van luck,” I said, but wondered about a teacher who didn’t want to teach.

  “Do me a favor, Kai. When you talk to Russ and the students—and especially to Ryan’s parents—tread lightly. We’ve had enough sadness already.”

  I repeated her admonition: “Tread lightly.”

  We talked about Ryan for a few more minutes. Then I walked back to my car in the blazing summer sun.

  two

  From Serena’s office I drove through Waikīkī and saw some nice sets rolling in. Before long I had my board in the water and I was paddling to Pops, or Populars, about a quarter mile offshore from the Sheraton. Pops was cranking—typical of a summer swell. The right-breaking curls seemed to sweep from here to eternity. You can tuck into those curls and ride your cares away.

  Suicide wasn’t my favorite kind of case, especially when the deceased was so young. I didn’t relish the prospect of meeting Ryan’s parents later that afternoon. That’s why I couldn’t pass by Waikīkī. Besides, Serena had mentioned that Pops was Ryan’s favorite spot in town. Could surfing here give me insights into his character? And into the case? I hoped so. The facts I’d been given so far made me doubt I could tell the Songs much more than they already knew.

  A wave on the horizon caught my eye. I stroked into position and took it—a nice one about shoulder high. I tucked into the curl and screamed along.

  Paddling back to the lineup, I thought about Ryan. Serena told me he’d been sweet on Marie since high school and apparently hoped their friendship would blossom into romance in Paris. But a few weeks after they arrived for the spring term, Marie met a student at the University of Paris. In what seemed to her friends like a very short time, she and Pierre were living together. Ryan was stung. Far from home and family—Hawai‘i was half way around the world—he succumbed to his despair.

  The night he died was February 29, Marie’s twenty-first birthday. She was a leap-year baby. And it turned out she and Pierre had been far from Paris when it happened, celebrating at his parents’ home in Lyons. That was the official version of the story, anyway.

  I wondered about Ryan killing himself by hanging. No surfer I knew of had ever done that. Surfers who die before their time usually get swallowed by a wave or a shark, or by the drugs that have invaded surfing culture. Wave riders go down doing what they love. Or they just go down. A surfer hanging himself would be rare. But Ryan was in Paris when he died and had no waves to chase his blues away. Would a landlocked surfer in despair take his own life?

  As many waves as I rode at Pops that morning, none gave me an answer.

  three

  I showered at Queen’s Surf Beach, toted my board back to my car in the Honolulu Zoo lot, put on my street clothes, and headed up Kapahulu Avenue to St Louis Heights. The Songs’ home was near the top of the sloping ridge overlooking Waikīkī’s skyline. The air up there was cooler. And the sky bluer. I pulled up in front of their island-style bungalow, squeezed between two McMansions that made their place look like servants’ quarters. Neat and tidy, but not fancy. In front stood a mango tree that Ryan no doubt climbed as a boy, and a dusty pickup with signs that said SONG MASONRY CONTRACTING.

  I stepped across the close-clipped grass to a covered lānai and knocked on the door. A handsome part-Hawaiian woman greeted me. She had the same luminous eyes and shy smile as her son. But the smile could not mask the sadness in her face.

  “Come in,” she said, looking too young to be the mother of a twenty-year-old.

  The living room continued the neat and tidy theme: rattan couch and chairs an
d coffee table, a few lamps, and an area rug. Except for a surfboard mounted like a trophy on one wall, which I took to be Ryan’s, that was it. And a guitar leaning against another wall. Also his?

  “Lono!” she called into a bedroom. A deeply-tanned local man ambled into the living room. He was wiry—all muscle and bone.

  “Sorry about your son.” I shook Mr. Song’s hand. It was warm but callused hard like concrete.

  “My son nevah wen’ kill himself,” he said in Pidgin. “Nevah!”

  “Lono . . .” His wife tried to calm him.

  “My family name been ruin by dis lie!” Mr. Song’s face reddened.

  “Why don’t we sit down,” Ryan’s mother said, her shy smile fading.

  We sat and Mrs. Song said, “Ryan was a serious boy, Mr. Cooke. He didn’t always put himself forward, but he was not weak. I know my own boy. I know he would never do this to his father and me.”

  “Was no coward!” Mr. Song cried. “My son nevah—” He buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said again. I’m sure he didn’t hear me.

  Mrs. Song kept her composure. “Ryan was sad when Marie went off with that French boy, but he didn’t take it so hard as everyone thinks.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “He sent me emails,” she said. “He said, ‘I’m OK, Mom. Paris is cool.’ He said he was seeing the sights with a girl named Meighan who lived on the next floor.”

  “Do you still have the emails?”

  “Yes. And we have Ryan’s laptop. The college mailed it along with his things. Do you want to take it?”

  “Sure.” I had no idea what use the laptop might be, but with so little to go on I couldn’t afford to pass.

  “I’ll get it for you before you leave,” she said.

  We talked at length about Ryan’s relations with friends, family, and other students, and his frame of mind before he left for France. Then I asked, “Could Ryan have said he was okay just so you wouldn’t worry?”