“Not yet,” Boone says. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
He walks her over to Jeff’s Burgers.
They’ve spruced the tiny place up a little bit. Its two long narrow rooms have a fresh coat of white paint and murals of the Coronado Bridge with little sailboats gliding underneath. Nicole stands at the counter and looks up at the menu printed on the board above.
“What’s good?” she asks.
“At Jeff’s Burgers?”
“Well, yes.”
“A Jeff’s Burger,” he says.
She asks for a Jeff’s with everything, fries, and a chocolate shake. Boone doubles the order, then they go sit in a booth. The food is ready in a couple of minutes, and she digs into it like it might be her last meal.
“S’good,” she says.
“Stick with me,” Boone answers. “I know all the good places.”
She keeps wolfing it down. Doesn’t say a word until she’s finished the whole thing and then says to him, “Okay.”
“Okay, you’re done?”
“Okay, I trust you.”
“Because of a burger?”
She nods and tells him that’s pretty much it. If he was a slime bucket on Bill’s payroll he would have taken her to the nearby Marine Room, bought her an expensive meal, and plied her with wine. Only a genuine surf bum chump would be dumb enough to take her to Jeff’s Burgers.
Well, Boone thinks, you work with what you got.
124
“He has a girlfriend,” Monkey says with a gasp. “British.”
“Name?” Jones asks.
“Pete.”
“Come again?”
“Petra, I think.”
“Surname?”
Monkey shakes his head.
“Oh, dear.”
“Hall,” Monkey says quickly.
“Good,” Jones says. He turns to the Crazy Boys. “Wrap this up and take him with you. We might have more questions to ask him later.”
They take Monkey down from the pipe.
125
Nicole drives Boone to a storage locker in Solana Beach and tells him to wait in the car. Comes out five minutes later with a box and puts it on his lap, then drives him back to her office parking lot and drops him off at the Deuce.
“That’s quite some ride you have there,” she says. “The PI business booming?”
“Like real estate,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”
“Go home, I guess.”
“You have a friend or a relative you could stay with?” Boone asks. “Someone Bill doesn’t know about?”
She has her grandmother up in Escondido, and Boone suggests she stay there for a few days. She gets it, tells him she will, and they exchange cell phone numbers.
“You did the right thing,” Boone says.
“The right thing,” she says, “won’t pay my mortgage.”
Too true, Boone thinks.
126
They have the papers spread out all over Petra’s living-room floor as they create piles of related records and documents that link one to another.
“Do you know what we have here?” Petra asks him.
Boone knows. Freaking dynamite, enough to blow the lid off the city and shake it to its foundations. Bribes to city, county, and state officials for approvals for building projects on dangerous ground; cover-ups of shoddy construction practices; real-estate development partnerships that connect to half the big businesspeople in the county. And this is from just one developer, Bill Blasingame. He can’t be the only pitcher working the corners of the plate; there must be dozens. Where would those connections lead?
Yeah, Boone knows what they have there.
“This might be more wave than we want,” he says.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
Boone explains that sometimes you get into a wave that’s too big for you to handle. It isn’t a matter of pride or ego or even your skill level, it’s just physics—the wave is too tall, heavy, and fast for your board and your body, and it will crush you.
He has that sense here. The individuals and businesses listed in Nicole’s records are connected, and the connections are connected, and it’s not just linear—each line reaches out in multiple directions to other lines. It’s what that old yuppie concept of “networking” is all about, and in a city as small and tight as San Diego, the network is close and dense.
Where in that network do you bring this information? he asks her. You bring it to the DA’s office—where is the district attorney in that matrix? Bring it to the cops—same thing. A judge—ditto, ditto.
“Certainly we can take this to Alan,” Petra says. “I mean, we have to take it to Alan, it’s potentially exculpatory evidence for a client. For you, as well.”
She sees the look on his face and says, “Good lord, Boone, you don’t suspect Alan?”
He doesn’t suspect that Burke is involved in any sketchy real-estate deal, but Alan is definitely woven into the San Diego power network. And Petra doesn’t know the leverage that can be worked on a guy like Alan—all of a sudden the wiring in his office building is out of code, a slam-dunk motion in court goes the other way, a guy he defended five years ago claims that Alan suborned him to perjury . . .
It’s Chinatown, Pete. It’s Chinatown.
“So what do you want to do?” Petra asks.
“We’ll turn it over to Alan in the morning,” Boone says. “In the meantime, let me lay a little pipe.”
“Really, Boone, these metaphors.”
If you take the info to one source, he explains, it might get buried. Take it to two or three, you improve your chances.
“But to whom do you take it?” she asks.
Depends in whom you trust.
127
Nicole finally calls him back.
“Where the fuck,” Bill asks, “have you been?”
“Out,” she says. “Listen, I wasn’t even going to call you . . . I . . .”
She starts crying, for Chrissakes.
“Nicole,” Bill says, “why don’t you come over and we’ll talk about this? We can work it out. You can have anything you want, I swear. Come on, we’ve meant a lot to each other. Do this for me, come over.”
There’s a long hesitation, and then she says, “Okay. I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later his bell rings and he opens the door.
It isn’t Nicole.
“Hello,” Jones says.
128
“I shouldn’t be meeting you,” Johnny says, “outside the house.”
Yeah, but he does. He meets Boone beneath the pylons under Crystal Pier. Meets him because old habits die hard and old friendships are hard to let go, even when the old friend planted a blade somewhere around your lumbar vertebrae.
“I appreciate it,” Boone says.
“You burned me, Boone.”
“I did your homework for you,” Boone answers. “If you’d done it first—”
“Fuck you,” Johnny says. “That kid is guilty as sin and now he’s boo-hooing you and you’re all buying his act. So why am I here?”
“That break on the Schering case—”
“Did Dan Nichols pay for it?”
“It had nothing to do with Nichols,” Boone says. He tells Johnny about Nicole, Bill Blasingame, and Paradise Homes.
When he’s done, Johnny says, “So you’re telling me that Phil Schering banging Donna Nichols is just a coincidence.”
“There’s no coincidence,” Boone says. “Donna Nichols was having an affair with a guy who was involved in a real-estate scandal gone bad. The guy got killed, probably by Blasingame. Billy Boy has at least as much motive, Johnny. Bring him in and make him give you an alibi for that night.”
“I know my job, Boone,” Johnny says. “How do I know this story isn’t total bullshit, seeing as how you’ve gone all gullible these days? Let me get this right—Junior isn’t a murderer, but Senior is? I love it.”
“I have the records.
”
“Rewind?”
“I have the records,” Boone says. “Nicole gave them to me.”
“And you didn’t bring them along because . . .”
This occasions one of those awkward silences. Which Johnny breaks by saying, “Because you trust me, sort of.”
“It’s not you, JB.”
“Noooo,” Johnny says, “it’s the baaaad department, right? Boone Daniels was the one shining light of purity and he had to leave, lest he be corrupted by the rest of us. Fuck you, Boone. You think you’re the only honest man in the world?”
Boone names three names he saw in Nicole’s papers.
“You take those names in to your lieutenant,” he says, “what happens?”
“Then why come to me at all?” Johnny asks.
“Because you’re taking the wrong angle on the Schering murder.”
“Just like the Kuhio case.”
Boone shrugs.
“You’re unfreaking believable lately,” Johnny says. “Everyone’s wrong but you. We have the wrong guy for Kuhio. We have the wrong guy for Schering. . . . Hey, Boone, there couldn’t be a little self-interest involved here, could there? I mean, you get Dan Nichols off the hook, you wiggle free, too, don’t you? You don’t have to try to sleep at night knowing that you fingered a guy to get murdered.”
Boone’s fingers curl into fists.
Johnny sees it.
“God, would I like to, Boone,” he says. “But my career is already fucked enough without a fight with a civilian in my jacket. But back off before I realize I don’t give a fuck.”
Boone unclenches his hands and steps back.
“Smart, B.”
“You’ll pick up Blasingame?”
“I’ll think about it.”
They both know he’ll do more than think about it, because they both know that Boone has maneuvered him into doing more than thinking about it. Johnny Banzai is a good cop, and now that he knows he has another suspect, he can’t act as if he doesn’t.
“Be careful on this one, Johnny,” Boone says.
“Ride your own wave,” Johnny says. “I’ll ride mine.”
Boone watches him walk away.
129
“Is she coming?” Jones asks.
Bill Blasingame, his wrists and ankles duct-taped to a dining-room chair, shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
Jones smiles. “Oh, dear,” he says, “my employer is not going to like that.”
130
Donna Nichols looks especially radiant as she moves through the crowd, working the room, making small talk. The crowd is lively and happy, munching on expensive finger food, sipping champagne, laughing, and chatty. The lantern light makes her shine particularly golden.
Balboa Park is beautiful.
On this soft summer evening, yielding to the nighttime cool, with the glow of lanterns lighting the courtyard of the Prado—bathing the old stone and grillwork in an amber light, and sparkling on the water in the fountain—the effect is magical.
The people are beautiful, too.
San Diego’s beautiful people—the women in plunging white dresses and the men in white jackets and ties. Beautiful tans, beautiful smiles, beautiful hair. A beautiful event, this fund-raiser for the museum, and Boone feels out of place in the summer wedding and funeral suit he’d climbed into to come over here.
He stands in the shadow of an archway, at the perimeter of the gathering, and scans the crowd to find Dan. He admires the Nicholses for not hiding in their house but confronting the Schering scandal head-on, and proceeding with an evening like this. He knows there must be sidelong glances, behind-the-back whispers and jokes, but the Nicholses seem unaffected. Finally he makes eye contact. Dan excuses himself and walks over to Boone. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Can we go out and talk?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dan says.
He follows Boone outside onto the Prado. A few strollers are out, and a couple of San Diego police watch the entrance to the courtyard, to keep the public away from the glittering party inside.
“You didn’t kill Phil Schering,” Boone says.
Dan’s smile is totally charming. “I guess I already knew that, Boone. But I’d sure like to know why you know it now.”
Over his shoulder, Boone sees Donna come out from the courtyard. She walks up and puts her hand on Dan’s shoulder. “What is it?”
She looks alarmed.
Dan smiles and says, “Boone’s about to explain, darling, why he doesn’t think I killed your lover. We speak openly about these things, Boone. Our counselor said that was a healthy thing.”
Boone tells them about Bill Blasingame, Paradise Homes, and Nicole’s documents that prove it.
“Thank God,” Donna says when he finishes. She wraps her arms around her husband and puts her face into his neck. When she raises her head, her cheeks are wet with tears. She looks across at Boone and says, “Thank you. Thank you, Boone.”
“Is this over now?” Dan asks.
Boone shakes his head. “No, there’s a ways to go, but I doubt they’ll even charge you now, and if they do, with your alibi and the other potential suspect—”
“We owe you, Boone,” Dan says. “More than we can say.”
Donna nods.
“I did it as much for myself,” Boone says.
“I don’t know what Alan’s paying you,” Dan says, “but there’ll be a big bonus, I can tell you that.”
Boone shakes his head. “Not necessary. Or wanted.”
“Okay,” Dan says. “Tell you what. I think it’s time that Nichols had a chief of security, and I think that’s you. Mid-six-figure yearly salary, benefits, profit-sharing, stock down the road if you choose.”
“That’s generous, Dan,” Boone says. “I’ll think about it, I really will. I’m also thinking about law school, though.”
“Law school?” Dan asks. “I could see that.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“We’re going to be okay, Boone,” Dan says. He holds Donna a little tighter. “We’ve talked a lot, we’ve been really open. We’re committed to each other, and we’re going to be okay.”
“I’m glad,” Boone says.
Dan turns to Donna, “Well, honey, we’d better go back in before everyone thinks we’re involved in another murder.”
Donna kisses him on the cheek, extends her hand to Boone, and says, “Thank you. Truly.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dan says, “Well, see you at the Gentlemen’s Hour?”
“Sure.”
That’s where he surfs now.
With the gentlemen.
131
Cruz Iglesias gets on the phone.
Not a lot of people have Red Eddie’s backdoor number, but Iglesias is one of the privileged few.
Eddie answers on the third ring. “W’asup?”
“Eddie,” Iglesias says, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
Gentleman to gentleman.
132
They hit him as soon as he steps through the door.
One pistol shoved into his face, then the other slammed into the back of his head.
Boone drops to his knees, not out but wobbly. Even with the world tilting he can see that the gangbangers have wrecked his place, gone through it like a hurricane. But he’s too out of it anyway to stop them from wrapping the duct tape around his mouth, then over his eyes. They jerk his arms behind him, wrap more tape around his wrists, and push him to the floor.
He kicks out, but there are at least three of them, and they hold his legs and tape his ankles together, then pick him up and carry him into his bedroom. He feels the air of the open window as they lift him, then push him out.
Into the water.
Into the dark sea.
133
Shut it down.
What Johnny’s lieutenant told him.
His shift commander listened patiently to Johnny’s rendition of Boone’s Paradise Homes story, nodded vigo
rously at the salient points, whistled appreciatively when Johnny mentioned some of the names allegedly involved, then told him . . .