Double Take

"I know, but their ratings are obscene. We're looking for some authentic surfers to put in our program."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. We've followed your career, and I've seen some amazing footage of you surfing the Banzai Pipeline and Maverick's. That's why I flew all the way out here. We want you to star in our series." She pulled a contract out of her shoulder bag and put it in front of him. "Shooting starts in three weeks on the north shore. We're offering you $500,000 for the first season, with participation."

Buster had enough experience with sponsors to know not to accept her first offer. He flipped through the contract, trying to conceal his excitement like a bad poker player. "What's the name of the show?"

"It's going to be called Wet Dreams."

* * *

They agreed to meet the following evening at her suite at the Halekulani. When he came to her door, she greeted him dressed in a negligee. The lights were low, and a table for two was set in the parlor, with flickering candles and an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne. Loud Hawaiian music, with many drums, was playing on a stereo under the television set. Her suite was on the first floor, and the door to her terrace was shut with the curtains drawn.

"I hope my informality doesn't shock you," she said as she closed the door behind him and bolted it shut. "I suppose I've been in Hollywood too long."

"I can handle it," he said.

"Would you mind opening the champagne?"

"Why not?" Buster fumbled with the cork, trying to concentrate as she spread out her negligee and sat down on a pink loveseat. He found two fluted glasses and sat down next to her, filling them each to overflowing.

She giggled as she picked up a napkin and wiped the champagne off his pants. "It looks like you're going to have to take these off to let them dry."

Buster started to unfasten his belt. She turned away from him for a moment. "Darn these contact lenses," she said. When she turned back to face him, his trousers were off, and he wasn't wearing anything under them.

It took him a moment to realize that something had changed about her. It was dark in the room, and at first he couldn't put his finger on it. Then he realized. Her eyes were no longer brown. Before he could say anything, she reached up and pulled off her long brown wig, revealing a layered blonde shag.

He recognized her instantly. "You little bitch, what is this? Your idea of a joke?"

She pulled a snub-nosed Baretta out from between the seat cushions and released the safety. Before Buster could react, she pulled the trigger and shot off the head of his penis. The shot was drowned out by the cascade of Hawaiian drums coming from the stereo.

Buster fell to his knees in shock, bleeding profusely and bellowing like a harpooned walrus. He looked up at her in a rage as she crouched down beside him and pointed the gun at his face. "That was for Toby Goodfin," she said. Then, in Sandy Lane's voice, "This one's for me." She pulled the trigger again and shot him through the nose. He recognized his killer a spit second before the bullet entered his brain.

She stood up and took off her negligee, revealing a string bikini. After wiping her fingerprints off the hot gun that Sandy Lane bought on the street the day before, she opened the door to her terrace and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Sandy Lane took a red-eye back to Los Angeles that evening. For the next two days, he kept a low profile, waiting for the police to catch up with him, and hoping that Ashley could provide the necessary cover.

They called Ashley's house on Sunday morning. An investigation was being conducted into a homicide in Hawaii. Ashley Vaughn's name had come up. Would she be able to meet with Detective Halani of the Honolulu Police Department that afternoon?

She was waiting for him when he arrived in the company of an L.A.P.D. lieutenant at three o'clock on Sunday afternoon. Detective Halani apologized for intruding on her weekend, and introduced Lieutenant Goering, who was assisting him with leads on the mainland.

She invited them into the small living room, and after they seated themselves on a yellow sofa, she sat down across from them on a matching loveseat. Dressed in white jeans and a blue top, she looked every inch the Hollywood star, and Lieutenant Goering asked her for an autograph for his teenage daughter to break the ice. She excused herself to fetch a poster of Pepper Reef on a surfboard, which she signed with a personal message to the lieutenant's daughter.

Finally Detective Halani cleared his throat and asked her if she had ever met Buster Cruz. She screwed up her face and thought fast. "I remember him. He was creeping me out at Moondoggies last summer."

"Had you ever met him before?"

"Never."

"What happened that day at Moondoggies?"

Her mind raced. "I was hanging out with a guy I met at the beach, and we were trying to leave when this big creep came on to me. We trash talked a little, and then we left."

"We've spoken to a waitress who was there that day. She said things got pretty ugly."

"She must not hang out with surfers much."

"Did you ever see Buster Cruz again?"

"Nope."

"How about the guy you were with? What was his name?"

"Toby. Toby Goodfin." She wiped a tear away from her eye.

"How well did you know him?"

"We were just friends."

"Did you ever see him again?"

"He died a few months ago. Why are you asking me about him?" Another tear.

"Please, Miss Vaughn. If you will just bear with us for a few more minutes, we'll be finished."

"We hung out a lot this summer, with other friends from the beach. I got to meet a lot of surfers from Wet Girls, and Toby was one of them."

Lieutenant Goering spoke again. "Did you just see him at the beach?"

How much did they know? "One night I needed an escort for a big do at the Beverly Hilton, and Toby volunteered. He cleaned up real nice." She started to cry.

"I'm sorry," the detective said. "Do you need a minute?"

"I'll be okay."

Lieutenant Goering picked up the questioning. "Are you sure you never saw Buster Cruz again?"

"Positive. What happened to him?"

"He was shot to death in a hotel room on Waikiki Thursday night."

"Oh my."

"Do you have any idea who might have done this to him?"

"No. I only met him once in my life, but I'll say this. He was a total asshole, and it doesn't surprise me that somebody shot him."

"Did you know that he was implicated in the death of Toby Goodfin?"

She gasped. "What do you mean? Toby died in a car accident."

"Since Mr. Cruz's death, some witnesses have come forward and told us that he was overheard threatening to kill you and Toby Goodfin after your run-in with him in Malibu."

Her face turned white. "Kill us?"

"That's right. And we've reopened the investigation into Toby Goodfin's death. It appears that it might not have been an accident."

"What?"

"On closer examination, it seems that the brakes on his car may have been tampered with."

She started to cry again, real sobs this time, and the men waited until she composed herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "This is all so unbelievable."

"Where were you on Thursday?" Detective Halani asked gently.

"In New York."

"Can you prove that?"

She got up and walked over to the television set. There was a tape sitting on top of the VCR next to it. She inserted the tape, picked up the remote, and returned to her place on the loveseat. They watched as the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade came on the screen. There was Pepper Reef, riding down Broadway in a vintage woody, waving gaily to the crowd on Herald Square.

"I don't think we have any more questions," Lieutenant Goering said as they got up to leave. "Talk about the perfect alibi."

She showed them out, and then returned to the loveseat, utterly drained of emotion. She sat there for a long time, thinking about Sandy Lane. Would God forgive him for what he had become?

She didn't hear the car in the driveway, and she looked up in surprise when Ashley came in the front door, carrying a suitcase in one hand and a winter coat in the other.

"You're home early. How was New York?"