by Jeff Shelby
“KILLER SWELL KICKS ASS!”*
“Move over Spenser, Travis, and Elvis Cole—Noah Braddock is here for his piece of the pie.”
—*J. A. Konrath, author of Bloody Mary
“While the mystery contains surprising twists and turns, the real joy in this book is the characters. Like Harlan Coban did so well in his Myron Bolitar series, putting together two friends whose sarcastic banter is a hoot to follow, Shelby has done the same here.”
—The Denver Post
“Shelby writes like a pro, with realistic characters, terrific plotting, and a setting that makes you want to jump into your jams and wax up your board.”
—The Kansas City Star
“This is author Jeff Shelby’s debut, and it’s an impressive first effort. Braddock lives by his own code, like so many fictional private eyes. But he’s surrounded by a strong supporting cast, particularly Liz Santangelo, a detective with the San Diego police and Braddock’s ex-girlfriend. This promises to be a series worth following.”
—The Albany Times Union
“California backdrops, an engaging, in-your-face, surfer-vs.-the-establishment attitude…a strongly recommended new series start.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“A heck of a detective whose surfer appearance belies a thoughtful, tough, hardworking guy who knows his way around an investigation…. Shelby has written a serious detective story with a generous helping of humor that comes from the characters, not Shelby. And that makes everything feel just right, like a day at the beach.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Sharp dialogue and splashy local color make Shelby’s first outing more fun than a day at the beach.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Shelby handles the surf scene with finesse…. Braddock proves to be tough enough to keep going against the odds. Good action and a surprise plot twist make it a safe bet that Braddock will return.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Reminiscent in tone and style to Robert Crais’s The Monkey’s Raincoat…a well-done throwback.”
—Sarah Weinman, author of
Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind
“[Shelby] writes crisply, cleanly, and…praise be!…economically, a virtue seldom found in first novels. Local readers will enjoy his use of the San Diego culture, and fans elsewhere will welcome this latest addition to the private eye pantheon.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Mystery fans should love the San Diego setting as well as the smart-ass, but all-too-human surfer-turned-P.I. Noah Braddock.”
—C. J. Box, author of Out of Range
“Primo action with a lot of heart. Jeff Shelby with his clean, precise prose and gripping story is clearly a writer to watch.”
—Clint McKinzie, author of Crossing the Line
“Crisp and engaging.”
—San Diego Magazine
“Well-wrought characters built to go the distance. An impressive debut…will leave you thirsting for more.”
—Jack Kerley, author of A Garden of Vipers
“Manages to be both charming and laid-back and genuinely suspenseful. It has a great title, too.”
—Laurence Klavan, author of
The Shooting Script and The Cutting Room
“Put on sunscreen and shades, get a cool drink, and join in on the fun in the San Diego sun.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“This is a fun beach noir that grips the audience from the personality-expressive opening line until the final reunion over the Pacific rocks.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Shelby creates a believable new hero who loves to surf, has an old-fashioned sense of honor, and is not afraid to go in harm’s way during an investigation…positively sizzles…[Shelby’s] writing is witty and refreshing.”
—Roundtable Reviews
Killer Swell
A NOAH BRADDOCK NOVEL
JEFF SHELBY
AN ONYX BOOK
ONYX
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.
Copyright © Jeff Shelby, 2005
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1225-7
REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Hannah Elizabeth
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter
37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgments
1
Marilyn Crier peered in the window, and I knew the past was about to kick me in the ass.
I was sitting at a small table near the front of the SandDune, a cramped and noisy bar in Mission Beach, a block north of the old roller coaster and a block east of the Pacific Ocean. The pub is sandwiched between ten other beach-themed saloons on Mission Boulevard and draws the same crowds. Half yuppie, half nowhere to go. Everyone is tan, the floors are covered with sand and peanut shells, and you can’t hear the ocean over the din of music and conversation. But on good nights, you can smell the salt in the air.
Marilyn had called me and said she needed a private investigator. She didn’t mention that we hadn’t seen each other in over a decade, that she’d despised me when I dated her daughter in high school, or that she’d orchestrated our breakup.
Had to admit I was curious.
We agreed to meet at the SandDune because she said it was on her way home. I couldn’t figure out how that might be true, as she didn’t work and she lived on the wealthiest side of Mount Soledad over in La Jolla, a world away from the beer and party crowd of the San Diego beach bars. But it was only a couple of blocks from my apartment, and I didn’t have to put away my surfboard too early in order to meet her at seven.
I was sipping my beer and following the Padres game on the television monitors when I spotted Marilyn Crier outside the window.
She glanced up above the faux saloon doors, probably checking to make sure she was in the right place. Her green eyes were identical to her daughter’s, pale and deep. She looked back in the window, and I waved at her, rising out of my chair. She stared at me for a moment, as if making sure it was me, then nodded and came into the bar. Her red Chanel suit was as out of place as a cat in a giraffe’s mouth, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She stood at my table, her thin lips in a tight smile. “Noah Braddock,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “You haven’t changed at all.”
I had, but not in ways Marilyn Crier would notice. I did, after all, look pretty much the same, just a little older. I was in a navy T-shirt and white cotton shorts, worn leather sandals on my feet. My hairstyle hadn’t changed since high school, still cut short for low maintenance. And I knew she was thinking my tan was too dark for me to be working hard. She had said something similar to me when I was eighteen, but I couldn’t recall her exact words.
We shook hands, and I gestured at the empty wooden chair across from me. She continued to look at me as she sat down, silently sizing me up. I did the same. Her blond hair was still blond, no trace of gray despite the fact that she had to be in her mid-fifties by now. It was cut short, blunt, tucked behind her ears. She was still petite, like her daughter, and she reminded me of those plastic-looking news anchors you see on television.
“Mrs. Crier,” I said, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”
She laughed quietly, waving a perfectly manicured hand in my direction. “Noah. I think it’s okay if you call me Marilyn now. You’re not in high school anymore.”
I shrugged. Old habits. You should always be polite to the parents of the girl you desperately want to have sex with in high school.
The girl behind the bar came over, and Marilyn ordered a glass of white wine. The girl didn’t laugh, but I figured she might be gone awhile trying to find a bottle.
Marilyn eyed the inhabitants at the bar for a moment and then looked at me, clearing her throat. “Are you living down here?”
I recognized the condescension in her voice, but ignored it. “Couple blocks down, on Jamaica.”
“You were a surfer, weren’t you?”
“Still am.”
She nodded, again taking in my appearance. “I guess you are.”
The waitress came back with the glass of wine. I wondered where she found the glass. Marilyn tasted the wine, didn’t spit it out, and placed her purse in her lap, settling in. “I’ll try not to waste your time, Noah,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “Kate is missing.”
Hearing Kate’s name did something to my stomach. I hadn’t seen her since she’d left for college. She’d headed off to Princeton; I’d stayed around to go to San Diego State. In the eleven years since I’d last seen her, I hadn’t forgotten Kate Crier.
“Kate’s missing,” I repeated, turning the beer glass slowly on the table.
Marilyn nodded tersely. “For about a week. She came down for the Fourth. We went to Catalina, did some shopping, things seemed normal.”
Kate and I had gone to the Crier family’s Catalina Island condo on prom night. And she broke my heart there two months later.
“She was supposed to catch a plane to go home to San Francisco on the eighth,” Marilyn continued, the lines at the corners of her mouth tightening. “But she didn’t.”
A dull roar went up from the bar, and I glanced up at the television. Padres had scored. First time in July.
“She didn’t get on the plane?” I asked, looking back to Marilyn.
She shook her head, the pearls in her earlobes jiggling. “No. Randall called when she didn’t arrive in San Francisco.”
“Randall?”
Marilyn took another micro sip from the glass and fixed her eyes on mine. “Kate’s husband.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ah.”
“He’s a doctor in the Bay area,” she said.
She didn’t need to add “and you’re not.” Her tone implied it.
I tried to be mature. “But she didn’t get on the plane?”
Marilyn nodded. “I checked with the airline. She never checked in.”
The crowd at the bar groaned and I glanced up to see the end of the double play finishing the Padres’ half of the inning. That was more like it.
“I got your name from Jack Meyers,” Marilyn told me, leaning slightly forward. “He said you assisted him a year ago. He said you’re very good.”
I’d found Jack Meyers’s wife screwing his attorney after three nights of tailing her. When I told him, he thanked me profusely, placed her clothes in a cardboard box, and lit the box on fire. We watched the burning mass float in his backyard pool as he wrote me a check.
I wondered if it hurt for Marilyn Crier to admit that I was good at something. I knew it had to hurt to be sitting in a bar with me.
“So you want me to find her,” I said, finishing my beer and setting the mug on the table. “Find Kate.”
She stared at me for a moment, perhaps trying to make me squirm like she had when I was in high school. I resisted the urge.
“Noah, I know you don’t like me,” she said, her eyes even and her voice flat. “But you don’t have to like me to help me. I recognized your name when Jack mentioned it. I need an investigator and I figured it might be helpful to have someone do this who knows Kate. Things may not have worked out with Kate way back when…”
“And that just crushed you, didn’t it, Marilyn?” I said, smiling, but not bothering to warm it up. “I mean, I know you just dreamed of having me for a son-in-law.”
She paused for a moment, then folded her hands on the table. “As I was saying, your relationship with Kate didn’t work out. But I know you cared about Kate. And I was hoping that might still count for something.”
Another groan went up at the bar,
but I didn’t look up. I stared at Marilyn Crier, but I saw Kate’s face. The one that had made high school bearable for me. The face that I used to look to for sympathy as I sat on the bench during high school basketball games. The face attached to the first female body that I saw naked. The face that crushed me that night on Catalina. The face that was going to let my past do a little ass kicking.
So against my better judgment, I told Marilyn Crier that my caring for her daughter did, in fact, still count for something.
2
I ordered another beer, waited for it to arrive, and then asked Marilyn, “Why would Kate disappear?”
She hesitated and then shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Things with Randall are okay?”
She fiddled with one of the gold buttons that ran down the middle of her suit and glanced around the bar. “Randall is wonderful.”
“Not what I asked.”
Marilyn chuckled and shook her head. “Maybe I made a mistake in coming to you, Noah.”
I nodded, thinking the same thing. “I’ve been wondering if I should put that on my business cards.”
She leaned across the table. “Kate loves Randall. You won’t be able to turn this into a ‘win her back’ contest. She loves him.”
I took a long swallow from the beer and stared at her without saying anything. I tried to recall the name of the cartoon superhero who could shoot lasers out of his eyes because, at that moment, I really would’ve liked to use those lasers on Marilyn Crier.
