I went to Google and typed in “Ralph Kim” as a phrase, with “mistress” after it. Sure enough, I came up with a couple of hits, the most promising from a blog written by an ex-staffer at the station. Ralph had married a demure Korean girl after he graduated from college, and they had a son together, but these days he spent most of his time with his mistress, a blonde haole girl he’d met when she was a production assistant at KVOL.
That piece of information snugly nested in my brain, I stripped down, did my daily check for any new bumps and bruises, and then headed for the shower.
My dreams were restless and creepy, even though the bed was comfortable. In one, I walked alone down a darkened beach that I knew was Pipeline, knowing somehow that if I could just climb that ridge, I would be able to stop Brad’s murder-but I couldn’t. No amount of effort or willpower could get me over it.
I woke just before dawn, covered in sweat, and knew I couldn’t go back to sleep. There was too much to do.
Pipeline wasn’t as crowded as usual. I managed to get a little surfing in before I saw the KVOL truck pull up on Ke Nui Road. I walked up the beach in my wetsuit as the cameraman was getting his B roll, shots of the beach that could play under Ralph’s voice. I hoisted my board back onto the roof rack, uncertain of what I’d do after the interview, then walked over to Ralph, who greeted me warmly, filling me in on how the interview would work. He positioned me so that the spot where the bodies had been found, still roped off with yellow police tape, was visible behind me.
Ralph listened to his earpiece, then said, “There’s an overturned tanker truck on the H1, so they’re giving the traffic guy an extra minute. After that, they go to a commercial, then they come to us. You okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “After the last few weeks, I’m getting to be a pro at this.”
“And you’re doing a great job,” he said. Then we stood, a little awkwardly, waiting for the voice in his ear to get us started. All at once, he looked alert, and I took a deep breath as the camera began to run. Ralph began with a rundown on what had happened to me-how I’d been a championship surfer before attending the police academy, and then a decorated officer and detective in Waikiki. All true, though a little exaggerated. He went on to describe how I’d come out of the closet, how the department had responded, and how I’d decided to give up my career, returning to my first love, surfing.
“But tragedy seemed to follow this dedicated officer, all the way up here to the idyllic North Shore of O‘ahu,” Kim said. “Kimo’s friend and recent romantic interest, Hale’iwa retailer Brad Jacobson, was brutally murdered on this very beach late Sunday night.”
He turned to me, and the cameraman moved behind his shoulder, so that I’d be looking at the camera as I looked at Ralph. “Is it true that a stormy breakup with you Sunday evening led Jacobson to this stretch of beach, for a romantic rendezvous with a college surfer he’d met only moments before?”
“First of all, Ralph, I wouldn’t call what happened between us a ‘stormy breakup.’ Brad and I were friends, and yes, we had a brief, intimate relationship, but we had a disagreement Sunday evening, nothing more than that. As to what led Brad to this beach, I couldn’t say.”
“And you didn’t know the man he was killed with, Thomas Singer?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
The cameraman stepped back, getting both of us in the shot, and Ralph said, “Eyewitness accounts indicate that Jacobson met Singer at Sugar’s, a notorious gay bar here in Hale’iwa, and the two retired to the beach for a sexual encounter.”
To me, Ralph said, “How does it feel to know that if you hadn’t cheated on Brad Jacobson with two of his male friends Saturday night, he might be alive today?”
It was the ambush I’d been waiting for, but it still hit me hard. My mouth went dry and my pulse raced. Years of police training, however, kicked in, and I said, swallowing carefully, “I don’t know, Ralph. How would it feel if someone killed your wife while you were having sex with your mistress?”
For a moment, Ralph Kim lost his composure. His eyes lit up, and if looks could kill, I’d have died on that beach just as Brad did. But I saw his professionalism struggling to regain control, and he said, “This isn’t about me, Kimo. It’s about you and your behavior. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“If you have the right to drag my sex life across everybody’s TV screen, Ralph, then I can do the same to you,” I said.
Ralph turned toward the camera, ignoring me. “Contrary to police reports, however,” he said, “this does not appear to be an isolated encounter. KVOL News has uncovered three other unsolved murders of surfers on the North Shore within the last three months.”
Then he turned back to me, all professionalism. “Kimo, you’re an experienced homicide detective. Do you think these murders are all related? Should North Shore surfers be on the lookout for a homicidal maniac?”
“I wasn’t involved in any investigations up here,” I said, “so I really can’t say anything. But I’m sure that the detectives from District 2 are doing everything they can to solve every open homicide on their books, and I have full confidence in their ability and in the ability of the Honolulu Police Department to protect the public.”
The cameraman backed up, to include a wide shot of the surfers on the beach behind us. Ralph said, “This is Ralph Kim at Banzai Pipeline, with disturbing news about five violent deaths on the North Shore. Is someone shooting surfers? We’ll have more on this story at noon. Back to you in the studio.”
The camera man gave him a signal, and Ralph disconnected his ear piece. “Nice move, bringing up my girlfriend in a live interview, Kimo. I’ll remember that.”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it, remember not to drag somebody else’s dirty laundry out in the public unless yours is all clean.”
He stalked off toward Ke Nui Road, followed by the cameraman, and I headed back to my truck.
The Shooter
Just as I reached Ke Nui Road, my cell phone rang. It was Sampson.
“I saw your interview on KVOL,” he said. “Seemed to go pretty well, until Ralphie tried to sabotage you. You’ve got balls, man, I’ll tell you that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I met with Singer’s parents yesterday after I left you. They’re both pretty broken up. The father had no clue the boy was gay, but the mother says she wasn’t surprised.”
I leaned back against my truck. “The mothers always know.”
“They say there was never any evidence that the boy was into drugs, but the tox screens on the autopsy will tell us. I’ve got some witness interviews I can email you about how Jacobson and Singer met at that bar, Sugar’s. But you heard that from Ralph Kim.”
“Yup. I’ve also spoken to an eyewitness myself.”
“Good. What’s your plan for today?”
“I’m going to hang around the beach for a while, make myself visible, talk to people, and see if anybody has information.”
“Get back to me before the end of the day, Kimo. This investigation is getting a lot hotter very quickly and I want it resolved.” He hung up, and I stashed the phone in my glove compartment, then looked back at the beach.
Every time I saw that area of roped-off sand where Brad’s body had been found, it made me want to turn right around and head back to Cane Landing. But I couldn’t; I had a job to do.
I was pulling my board back off my truck as Mike Pratt’s girlfriend Trish came by. Today her bikini was an electric green, just a couple of swatches of fabric tied together with matching green laces. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “There’s a guy you should know about.”
“Who?”
“You heard about the surfers who got shot yesterday?”
I nodded. “I knew the one guy. Brad.”