Dawn Patrol - Don Winslow [42]
All of which inspired a conversation the day The Dawn Patrol went down to check out the Frisbee demonstration, got bored, and walked over to watch dogs surf.
“Have you ever pulled a dog out of the water?” Boone asked Dave.
“No. Dogs are generally smarter than people.”
“Plus, they have better traction,” Johnny observed. “Lower center of gravity and four feet on the board instead of two.”
“Paws,” Sunny said.
“Huh?”
“Not feet,” Sunny said. “Paws.”
“Right.”
“But they can’t paddle,” Hang Twelve said, maybe a little jealous because prior to this conversation he held the “most toes on a board” honors.
“Dogs can’t paddle?” High Tide asked.
“No,” Hang said.
“You ever heard of the ‘dog paddle’?” Tide said.
“That thing little kids do in swimming pools?” Hang asked.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Where did they get the name?” Tide asked.
Hang thought about this for a few seconds, then said, “But dogs can’t paddle boards; that’s what I meant. Dogs weren’t meant to surf.”
“That thing that runs from the board to your ankle,” Tide said. “What’s it called?”
“The leash,” Hang replied.
“End of story,” said Tide.
They eventually resolved that if dogs could paddle boards, they’d be the world champion surfers every year, because dogs never fall. They jump off at the end of the ride, shake the water out of their fur, and wait to go back out again.
“Kind of like you,” Dave said to Tide. “You jump off, shake your fur, and go back out again.”
Because Tide is one hairy guy.
“They’ve been looking for Bigfoot all over those remote forests,” Johnny chimed in. “They should have just come out to PB and looked into the water.”
“Surfing Sasquatch,” Sunny said. “Film at eleven.”
Anyway, they hung out for a while, watched dogs surf and chase Frisbees, then went back to Newport Street, to find that the protestors had gotten bored sitting around there and had gone to find another place to sit around and maybe get some coffee.
You gotta love Ocean Beach.
Now Boone turns inland onto Brighton Avenue, pulls up in front of Angela Hart’s four-story apartment building, and tells Petra to—
“I know,” she says. “ ‘Wait in the van.’ ”
“You’re an officer of the court,” Boone says, digging around the back of the van for his burglary tools. “Do you really want to witness breaking and entering? Stay here, be a lookout.”
He finds the thin metal jimmy.
“What should I do if I see something?” Petra asks.
“Warn me.” He gets out of the van.
“How?”
“Honk?”
“How many—”
“Just freaking honk, okay?”
He goes into the building and walks up to the third floor, ready to slip the lock, but someone already has. Boone listens for a few seconds but doesn’t hear anyone moving around. Unless, he thinks, whoever’s in there heard me coming up the stairs and is staying still, waiting behind the door to blast me when I come in.
Boone opens the door a little, then quickly shuts it again. Doesn’t hear anything, so he kicks the door wide open and goes in hard, hands up and ready.
Nothing.
Whoever was here came and went. Which is really bad news, because whoever was here might have taken Tammy with him.
Boone has a sickening thought.
Killers usually kill the same way. They don’t mix it up. A guy who fucked up and tossed the wrong woman off a balcony would probably try to redeem himself by tossing the right woman off a balcony.
Boone sees the slider that opens off the small living room. The slider is open; a slight breeze blows the curtain back.
He walks across the room, steps