Dawn Patrol

19

That's what Johnny Banzai thinks, too.

When he sees Boone.

Normally, Johnny likes to see Boone. Normally, most people do. But not here, not now. Not when there's a dead woman who dived off a third-floor balcony and missed, her body now sprawled a scant two feet from the swimming pool, her red hair splayed on her outstretched arm, her blood forming a shallow, inadequate pool of its own.

A tiny angel is tattooed on her left wrist.

Behind the pool are the four floors of the Crest Motel, built in two angular wings, one of a dozen ugly, indistinct hotels thrown up in the early eighties, catering to budget-minded tourists, economy-priced hookers, and anonymity-seeking adulterers. Each room has a tiny “balcony” overlooking the “pool complex,” with its small rectangular swimming pool and requisite Jacuzzi, which Johnny thinks of as basically a swirling, bubbling mass of potential herpes infections.

Now he ducks under the tape and steps into Boone's way. “Get out of here before the lieutenant sees you,” Johnny says.

Boone looks over his shoulder at the body. “Who is she?”

“What are you doing here anyway?”

“Matrimonial.”

Johnny sees the woman in Boone's van. “With the wife in tow?”

“Some people have to see for themselves,” Boone says. He juts his chin at the crime scene, where the ME is squatting by the body, doing his voodoo. Lieutenant Harrington squats beside him, his back to Boone. “Who's the jumper?”

In his gut he already knows the answer, but being an optimist, he hopes his gut is wrong.

“One Tammy Roddick,” Johnny says.

Gut one, optimism zero, Boone thinks.

“She checked in early this morning,” Johnny says. “Checked out a little while later.”

“You calling it a suicide.”

“I'm not calling it anything,” Johnny says, “until we get the blood work back.”

Sure, Boone thinks, to see what drugs are running through her system. Happens all the time in a party town like San Diego-a girl starts thinking the drugs are Peter Pan and she's Wendy, and Neverland starts looking not only good but reachable. The problem is… well, one of the problems is that the second she jumps she already knows it's a mistake, and she has those long seconds to regret her impulse and know she can't take it back.

Gravity being gravity.

Every surfer knows the sensation.

That big wave you get in, and get in wrong, but then it's too late and you're just up there knowing you're about to go down and there's nothing you can do about it but take the fall. And you just have to hope that the water's deep enough to slow you down before you hit the bottom.

Like maybe Tammy was hoping she'd make it to the pool.

“Now get out of here before Harrington scopes you,” Johnny is saying.

Too late.

Harrington straightens up, turns around to look for Johnny Banzai, and sees him talking to Boone Daniels.

A cat and a dog, a Hatfield and a McCoy, Steve Harrington and Boone Daniels. Harrington comes across the tape, looks at Boone, and says, “If you're looking for cans and bottles, sorry, the trash guys already came.”

Harrington's got a face like barbed wire-his bones are so sharp, you think you could cut yourself on them. Even his blond hair is sharp, cut short and gelled wiry, and his mouth looks like it was slashed with a knife between his thin lips. He wears a gray herringbone jacket, a white shirt with a brown tie, black trousers, and highly shined black shoes.

Harrington is hard-core.

Always has been.

“What are you doing at my scene, surf bum?” Harrington asks him. “I thought you'd be too busy getting little girls killed.”

Boone goes for him.

Johnny Banzai grabs Boone.

“Let him go,” Harrington tells him. “Please, John, do me a favor, let him go.”

“Do me a favor,” Johnny says to Boone. “Back-paddle.”

Boone backs off.

“Good choice,” Harrington says, then adds, “Pussy.”

Boone's head clears enough for him to see Petra breezing past all of them, striding right toward the scene.

“Hey!” Harrington yells, but it's too late. Petra is standing over the body. Boone sees her look down, then straighten up and walk real fast back to the van. She lays both hands on the car as if she's being frisked. Her head is down.

Boone walks over to her. “Go ahead and throw up,” he says. “Everyone does, the first time.”

She shakes her head.

“Go on,” he says. “You can be human; it's all right.”

But she shakes her head again and says something, although he can't quite make it out.

“What?” he asks.

She speaks a little louder.

“That's not Tammy Roddick,” she says.