Buddhist temple with less and less frequency, and he’s even missed one or two of the monthly visits to his grandfather at the old farm. It’s just the way things are in this modern American, Southern California life. The Kodanis are just busy people—Beth puts in brutal hours at the hospital and Johnny works his files like a machine with no off switch. Then there’s all the stuff with the kids—soccer games, Little League, karate, ballet, tutoring sessions—it’s small wonder there’s little room in the schedule for the old traditions.
Now the good detective opens the cheap, lightweight sliding door, which reveals a narrow closet. No clothes on the wire hangers, no shoes on the floor. A woman’s suitcase—more of an overnight bag—is set on a freestanding rack, and now Johnny goes through it. A pair of jeans, a folded blouse, some underwear, the usual assortment of cosmetics.
Either Tammy Roddick wasn’t planning on being gone long or she didn’t have time to pack. But why would a woman contemplating suicide pack an overnight bag?
Johnny goes into the bathroom.
It hits him right away.
Two toothbrushes on the sink.
One of them is pink, and small.
A child’s.
25
The girl walks on the trodden dirt path on the side of the road.
Her skin is a rich brown, her hair black as freshly hewn coal. She trips over a brown beer bottle that was thrown out the window of a car the nightbefore, but she keeps walking, and as she does, she fingers a small silver cross held by a thin chain around her neck. It gives her courage; it’s her one tangible symbol of love in an unloving world.
In shock, not really sure where she’s going, she keeps the ocean to her left because it’s something she recognizes, and she knows that if she keeps the water to her left, she will eventually reach the strawberry fields. The fields are bad, but they are the only life she has known for the past two years, and her friends are there.
She needs her friends because she has nobody now. And if she can find the strawberry fields, she will find her friends, maybe even see the
guero
doctor, who was at least nice to her. So she keeps walking north, unnoticed by the drivers who rush past in their cars—just another Mexican girl on the side of the road.
A gust of wind blows dirt and garbage around her ankles.
26
Boone stops off at The Sundowner for a jolt of caffeine and a delay in trying to explain the inexplicable to Petra Hall, attorney-at-law and all-around pain in the ass.
High Tide’s there, his bulk perched with surprising grace on a stool at the bar, his huge hands clutching a sandwich that should have its own area code. He wears the brown uniform of the San Diego Public Works Department, in which he’s a foreman. Tide is basically in charge of the storm drains in this part of the city, and with the oncoming weather, he knows he could be in for a long day.
Boone sits down beside him as Sunny looks up from wiping some glasses, walks over to the coffeepot, pours him a cup, and slides it down the bar.
“Thanks,” Boone says.
“Don’t mention it.” She turns back to wiping the glasses.
What’s she torqued about? Boone wonders. He turns to Tide. “I just had a conversation with one of the more interesting members of the greater Oceania community.”
“How
is
Eddie?” Tide asks.
“Worked up,” Boone says. “I thought you island types were supposed to be all laid-back and chill and stuff.”
“We’ve picked up bad habits from you
haole
,” Tide says. “Protestant work ethic, Calvinist predetermination, all that crap. What’s got Eddie’s balls up his curly orange short hairs?”
“Dan Silver.”
Tide takes a bite of his sandwich. Mustard, mayonnaise, and what Boone hopes is tomato juice squirt out the sides of the bread. “Don’t make no sense. Eddie don’t go to strip clubs. When he wants all that, the strip club comes to Eddie.”
“Says Dan owes him a big head of lettuce.”
Tide shakes his head. “I
Now the good detective opens the cheap, lightweight sliding door, which reveals a narrow closet. No clothes on the wire hangers, no shoes on the floor. A woman’s suitcase—more of an overnight bag—is set on a freestanding rack, and now Johnny goes through it. A pair of jeans, a folded blouse, some underwear, the usual assortment of cosmetics.
Either Tammy Roddick wasn’t planning on being gone long or she didn’t have time to pack. But why would a woman contemplating suicide pack an overnight bag?
Johnny goes into the bathroom.
It hits him right away.
Two toothbrushes on the sink.
One of them is pink, and small.
A child’s.
25
The girl walks on the trodden dirt path on the side of the road.
Her skin is a rich brown, her hair black as freshly hewn coal. She trips over a brown beer bottle that was thrown out the window of a car the nightbefore, but she keeps walking, and as she does, she fingers a small silver cross held by a thin chain around her neck. It gives her courage; it’s her one tangible symbol of love in an unloving world.
In shock, not really sure where she’s going, she keeps the ocean to her left because it’s something she recognizes, and she knows that if she keeps the water to her left, she will eventually reach the strawberry fields. The fields are bad, but they are the only life she has known for the past two years, and her friends are there.
She needs her friends because she has nobody now. And if she can find the strawberry fields, she will find her friends, maybe even see the
guero
doctor, who was at least nice to her. So she keeps walking north, unnoticed by the drivers who rush past in their cars—just another Mexican girl on the side of the road.
A gust of wind blows dirt and garbage around her ankles.
26
Boone stops off at The Sundowner for a jolt of caffeine and a delay in trying to explain the inexplicable to Petra Hall, attorney-at-law and all-around pain in the ass.
High Tide’s there, his bulk perched with surprising grace on a stool at the bar, his huge hands clutching a sandwich that should have its own area code. He wears the brown uniform of the San Diego Public Works Department, in which he’s a foreman. Tide is basically in charge of the storm drains in this part of the city, and with the oncoming weather, he knows he could be in for a long day.
Boone sits down beside him as Sunny looks up from wiping some glasses, walks over to the coffeepot, pours him a cup, and slides it down the bar.
“Thanks,” Boone says.
“Don’t mention it.” She turns back to wiping the glasses.
What’s she torqued about? Boone wonders. He turns to Tide. “I just had a conversation with one of the more interesting members of the greater Oceania community.”
“How
is
Eddie?” Tide asks.
“Worked up,” Boone says. “I thought you island types were supposed to be all laid-back and chill and stuff.”
“We’ve picked up bad habits from you
haole
,” Tide says. “Protestant work ethic, Calvinist predetermination, all that crap. What’s got Eddie’s balls up his curly orange short hairs?”
“Dan Silver.”
Tide takes a bite of his sandwich. Mustard, mayonnaise, and what Boone hopes is tomato juice squirt out the sides of the bread. “Don’t make no sense. Eddie don’t go to strip clubs. When he wants all that, the strip club comes to Eddie.”
“Says Dan owes him a big head of lettuce.”
Tide shakes his head. “I
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