Dawn Patrol (18 page)

“I noticed.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Boone hands Mick a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.”

“It’s hot, bro. Don’t toss it.”

Mick nods and takes a sip of coffee.

Boone sees his hand quiver.

“Tammy Roddick.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mick says.

Something in Mick’s face—a little tension along the jawline, the blue eyes going hard. The look is unmistakable—it’s the look of a guy who’s in love with a woman who’s dumped him.

“Does
this
ring a bell?” Boone asks. “A burglary at the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Hedigan in Torrey Pines about three months ago. Maybe I should go over and ring the Hedigans’ bell, ask them if
your
name—”

“Nice, Boone. Real nice,” Mick says. “I thought we were friends.”

“Not really,” Boone says. I don’t slip my friends twenties to answer questions. My friends aren’t sleazy matinee call boys. “Have you seen Tammy lately? Like today, for instance?”

Mick shakes his head. “I
wish
I had.”

Yeah, Boone thinks. So much for the unrung bell. “What do you mean?”

Mick’s face gets all soft and serious. “I loved her, Boone. I mean, I loved that fucking bitch. Really
loved
her, you know?”

He met her at Silver Dan’s. Watched her dance and was, like, mesmerized. Got a lap dance from her and asked her out, like on a real date. To his
surprise, she accepted. He met her at Denny’s after her shift and bought her breakfast. Then they went to her place.

“I thought I knew what good sex was,” Mick says. “Not even close.”

He loved just being with her, just looking at her. She had these green cat eyes, man, that you couldn’t take your own eyes off of. They were hanging out watching TV one night. They had the Animal Channel on, and it was a documentary about leopards, and Mick looked at her and said, “Those are
your
eyes, babe. You have leopard eyes.”

Yeah, but it wasn’t just the sex, and it wasn’t just her eyes—he loved just being with her, man. All that corny, romantic, chick-flick bullshit he never believed in? Mick started doing it, man. Walks on the freaking beach, breakfast in bed, holding hands, talking.

“She was smart, man,” Mick says. “She was funny. She was …”

Mick actually looks like he’s going to cry. He looks down into his coffee cup like it has memories at the bottom.

“So what happened?”

“She dumped me.”

“When?”

“Three months ago?” Mick says. “At first, I was all like, you know, fuck the bitch, but then it really started to eat at me, you know? I even fucking called her, man, left messages on her machine. She never called me back.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I tried to go see her at her new club,” Mick says. “She had the bouncers toss me. I’m PNG at TNG.”

“When was that?”

“Three, four days ago?” Mick says. “I dunno. How long have I been drinking?”

“What happened?” Boone asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you guys were so in love and everything,” Boone says. “What happened?”

He’s not ready for the answer that Mick gives him.

“Teddy D-Cup.”

Teddy D-Cup is what happened.

Teddy D-Cup.

Aka Teddy Cole.

Dr. Theodore Cole, M.D., board-certified cosmetic surgeon.

Teddy D-Cup does boobs.

Yeah, well, he does noses and chins, too, liposuctions, face-lifts, and tummy tucks, but boobs are Teddy’s profit center, hence the moniker.

Teddy is the Michelangelo of bosoms. His work is displayed at society functions, beaches, runways, movies, television shows, and, of course, strip clubs, wherever finer breasts are seen. They are status symbols, prestige items. It’s gotten to the point where women actually boast that their “tits are by Teddy.”

Strippers will work for years to save up the cash to get a pair by Teddy, although the word is that good Dr. Cole does have a scholarship program for girls he considers especially … uh … promising.

Like Tammy, according to Mick.

“She wanted a bigger rack,” Mick says. “I told her she didn’t need one, that she was gorgeous, but you know chicks.”

Not really, Boone thinks, but he goes along with it.

“I told her if she was going to do it, she had to go to the best,” Mick says.

“Teddy D-Cup.”

“Sure,” Mick says. “I knew all about him from the hotel. Believe me, I know Teddy’s work, up close and personal. Women who go to the Milano can afford Teddy.”

“But Tammy couldn’t.”

“She saved up,” Mick says. “You don’t know her—she’s single-minded,
man. Once she sets her sights on something. I mean, it was like work, work, work. Money, money, money.”

“So?”

Mick shakes his head. “I drove her to him, bro. I literally drove her to the first consultation. She comes out, we’re in the car, we’re not two blocks away, and she tells me maybe we should stop seeing each other. Do you believe that? She traded me in for a new set of tits.”

“So she’s seeing Teddy now.”

“She’s with him all the fucking time, man.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve followed them,” Mick says. “Is that pathetic, or what? I’ve banged half the hot rich babes in this town, and I’m sneaking around following this fucking mercenary cunt stripper, sitting in my car like some doof—That cheap fuck takes her to this little motel up around Oceanside—do you believe that, a guy with his kind of money?”

Boone gets this sinking feeling. “Hey, Mick?”

“What?”

“You didn’t do anything to her, did you?”

“No,” Mick says. “I
thought
about it.”

Then he asks, “Is she okay, Boone? Is she in some kind of trouble? Why are you looking for her?”

“She ever talk about Dan Silver?” Boone asks. “The fire at his warehouse?”

“She mentioned it happened.” He’s alarmed now. All geeked. “Is she okay? Is she hooked up with Dan again?”

“I don’t know,” Boone says, “but as your
friend
, I’m going to strongly suggest you get out of town for a while. Some people are looking for her who are going to be looking for you. You don’t want them to find you. They’re going to ask the same questions I did, but they may not believe your first answers.”

“She’s in trouble,” Mick says.

“Throw some shit in a bag,” Boone says. “Put some serious distance between you and here.”

“I have to find her. I have to help her.”

“You gonna rescue her?” Boone asks. “Then she’ll take you back?”

“I just want her to be okay,” Mick says. “Is that fucked up, or what?”

Actually, Boone thinks, it might be the least fucked-up thing he’s heard all day. He warns Mick to get out of town again, and then he leaves to go see Dr. Theodore Cole.

Tweety sits in the office of TNG, looking at his swollen knee. It looks bad; it looks like it’s going to keep him out of the weight room for a while.

“We better get you to the hospital,” Dan says.

Tweety looks sad. “I don’t have health insurance.”

“Not a problem,” Dan says. “I got you covered. Come on.”

Dan and the bouncer lift Tweety to his feet—well,
foot
-carry him outside—and squeeze him into the front seat of a Ford Explorer. The bouncer gets behind the wheel. Dan gently swings Tweety’s legs in, then gets in the backseat.

Tweety says, “I’m gonna kill that fucking Daniels.”

“We’ll do it for you,” Dan says. He tells the bouncer to head south on the 15, down to Sharp Hospital, the nearest urgent-care facility.

“Oh, man,” Tweety says, “anybody got any Vike or Oxy or something? I need
something
to kill the pain.”

Dan sticks a .22 pistol in the back of Tweety’s head and pulls the trigger twice.

“Oughta do it,” he says.

You roid-shooting, wrong woman–killing, stupid son of a bitch.

“Did you take a nap?” Petra asks when Boone gets back to the van.

“I call them ‘siestas,’ ” Boone says. “It sounds better.”

He fills her in on his conversation with Mick.

“So now we think that Tammy’s with this Teddy person?” Petra asks.

“Or at least he knows where she is,” Boone says. Not that this is necessarily good news. If Tammy went to Teddy and asked him for help, he could have bought her a first-class ticket to Tahiti. For all they know, she’s sitting on a beach with a mai tai resting on her new chest.

Laughing at everybody.

“Where’s this doctor’s office?” Petra asks.

“Right back in La Jolla Village,” Boone replies. Within sight of the Milano. It’s been that kind of back-and-forth day. “But first, we’re going to fuel up.”

She leans over and looks at the fuel gauge. “The tank is three-quarters full.”

“I meant me,” Boone says. “You, too, if you want.”

It’s just a couple of blocks to Jeff’s Burger. It’s a matter of near-religious devotion to Boone never to enter the vicinity of Jeff’s Burger without having one of his burgers. Luckily, there’s a parking spot right out front. Boone pulls the van in, turns off the engine, and asks, “You want something?”

“Actually, a Caesar salad with dressing on the side would be nice.”

“You got it.”

He goes in and orders two cheeseburgers with everything. When the burgers arrive, he dissects one, puts the meat into his own burger, then scrapes the lettuce, tomato, and onions into the lid of the plastic go-plate and goes back to the van.

“What’s this?” Petra asks when he hands her the plate.

“Caesar salad, dressing on the side.”

“In what country, may I ask?”

“Mine,” Boone says. “If you don’t want it, the seagulls will.”

She closes the plate and tosses it over her shoulder into the back of the van. He shrugs and eats as he drives back up to La Jolla Village. The burger tastes great and makes the drive back there go quickly. As they pull into the parking lot of Teddy’s building, Boone calls information and gets Teddy’s number.

“You’re phoning?” Petra asks.

“Hard to put one over on you, Pete.”

“Why not just march in there and demand to speak with him?”

The receptionist has the perfect cultured voice, and Boone guesses that she has the perfect chiseled face to match. As the first face you’d see when you walk into a cosmetic surgeon’s office, she has to be perfect.

“May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Cole,” Boone says.

“Do you have an appointment for a telephone consultation?”

“No,” Boone says.

“Are you a patient? Is this an emergency?”

“I’m not a patient, but I’d really like to talk to him.”

“Let me see … Dr. Cole had a cancellation in May. I could perhaps squeeze you in.”

Boone says, “I was thinking more like now.”

“Now?” she asks incredulously.

“Now,” Boone says.

“That would be impossible.”

“Tell Teddy that Tammy Roddick wants to talk to him.”

“Dr. Cole is in a consultation,” the receptionist says. “I am not going to interrupt him.”

“Yeah, you are,” Boone says. “Because if you don’t, I’ll call Teddy’s house and see if
Mrs
. Dr. Cole would like to talk with Tammy. So unless you want to make the current Mrs. Cole the next ex–Mrs. Cole, with all the hassle and alimony that entails, not to mention the potentially deleterious effect on your next Christmas bonus, I suggest you get Teddy on the horn and interrupt his consultation. I’m betting he’ll thank you.”

There’s a long, stony silence.

She breaks first. “I’ll see if he wants to be interrupted.”

“Thanks.”

She comes back on a second later with a voice edged in aggravation. “Can you hold for Dr. Cole?”

“Oh, you bet.”

A few seconds later, Teddy comes on the line. “This is Dr. Cole.”

“My name is Boone Daniels,” Boone says. “I’m a private investigator representing the law firm of Burke, Spitz and Culver. We have reason to believe that you might have information as to the whereabouts of Tammy Roddick.”

“I don’t think I know a Tammy Roddick,” Teddy says smoothly and
without hesitation. He’s used to denying knowledge of women, not only to the gossip media but also to his wives and girlfriends.

“Think some more,” Boone says. He describes Tammy, then continues: “A guy named Mick Penner says she dumped him for you. It’s credible information, Doc—everyone knows you have a thing for strippers.”

“Boone Daniels …” Teddy says. “You have a friend who’s a prodigious eater.”

“Hang Twelve.”

Teddy says, “I was there that night. I lost two hundred bucks.”

“Can we quit paddling around, Doc?” Boone asks. “It’s important we find Tammy Roddick. There’s good reason to believe she’s in serious trouble.”

Silence while Teddy thinks about this. And silence isn’t the response you’d expect, Boone thinks. Usually if you tell a guy something like this, he instantly asks, “Trouble? What kind of trouble?” So maybe Teddy already knows.

“In any case,” Teddy says. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t,” Boone says, “but you should. Look, if
I
figured you out, the cops are going to be about a half step behind me. And there are other parties.…”

“What other parties?”

“I think you know Dan Silver.”

Another silence, then:

“Jesus Christ,” Teddy says. “Strippers are always trouble. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. If they don’t want a free boob job, then it’s a nose job. Or they’re knocked up, or they want to go into therapy. Or they want to get married, or they threaten to call your wife.…”

“What are you going to do?” Boone asks.

“Right?”

“No,” Boone says. “I mean, what are you going to do? Look, Teddy, of the possible choices of people you can talk to, I’m the least worst option. The cops will charge you with impeding an investigation, and you don’t even want to
know
what Dan might do. He’s sort of a cosmetic surgeon himself.”

“I see what you mean.”

“You’re in the deep water,” Boone says. “I can pull you out. You
and
Tammy.”

More thinking.

“Can I get back to you on this?” Teddy asks.

“
Right
back?”