The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels #2)

They just wanted to pay their respects to the man.

Now Boone looks out at the same piece of water and remembers that day. He also remembers something that Kelly said to him one Saturday afternoon. Boone had been helping him keep a bunch of inner-city kids from drowning themselves while body-boarding down at La Jolla Shores, and a tired Boone asked Kelly why he went to all this trouble.

In his famously soft voice, Kelly answered, “You and I were lucky. At a very early age we found something that we loved, something that made our lives worth living. And I can’t but believe that if you think your own life is worth living, you value other people’s lives as well. Not everyone is as lucky as us, Boone.”

Now Boone argues with Kelly Kuhio’s memory. Yeah, but Kelly, the kids you worked with had nothing. The kid who killed you is a rich, spoiled little bastard who grew up with every advantage.

Then he hears Kelly’s dry, humorous voice. Apparently not, Boone.

So you’re going to help Corey Blasingame, Boone tells himself. Stop flailing around like a barney, you know you’re going to do it.

Because Kelly Kuhio would want you to.



18

Boone walks back into The Sundowner and sits down at the booth.

Not Sunny sighs and turns to the cook.

“Got it,” the cook says.

“Why me?” Boone asks. “Why not some other PI?”

“Because you know the scene,” Petra answers. “Another PI would take God knows how much time just to catch up on a learning curve that you already know.”

“Why did Alan take this case?” Boone snaps.

“Corey’s father is an old fraternity brother,” Petra says.

“So I take it he can handle Alan’s bill.”

Petra nods.

“Doctor? Lawyer? Indian chief?”

“Real estate developer.”

“I hate him already.”

This is true. Generally speaking, Boone would have every real estate developer in Southern California put on a bus and driven over a cliff if it wouldn’t kill the bus driver. If he can find a bus-driving real estate developer, though, it’s on.

Not Sunny sets Boone’s plate down. He takes a big bite of the reheated machaca, then says, “I won’t help you go for an acquittal.”

“We’re not asking that,” Petra says. “Just a sentence that reflects the facts, that a drunken teenager threw one punch with unfortunately tragic consequences, as opposed to the mob mentality that’s driving an inflated first-degree murder charge. We don’t want to go to trial, Boone. Just try to get enough leverage that we can make a deal that resembles justice.”

They want to knock it down to voluntary manslaughter. Boone knows that the State of California has mandatory sentencing guidelines—a vol man plea bargain could get Corey anywhere from 24 to 132 months in prison. Figure it somewhere in the middle range.

“Tell Alan I’ll take the case.”

“Actually, I already did.”

Because with all your contradictions you’re really a very simple man, she thinks.

You’ll do the right thing.

She reaches over to his plate, tears off a piece of tortilla, and says mildly, “There’s a slight problem.”

Actually, six slight problems.

Five eyewitnesses.

And Corey’s confession.



19

Since starting to date Pete, Boone has gained an appreciation of British understatement.

If she says she’s “a bit peckish,” it means she’s starving; if she’s “a tad annoyed,” she’s really approaching near homicidal rage; and little Corey’s having “a slight problem” means he’s totally screwed.

Calling Corey’s confession “a slight problem” is like tagging a tsunami “a little wave,” Boone thinks as he looks over the file. It could sweep Corey off the beach and carry him all the way to San Quentin, never to be seen again.

Here’s what stupid Corey wrote:

“We were outside the bar waiting because we were pissed that they threw us out of there earlier. So I saw the guy coming out of the bar and decided to mess him up. I walked up to him and hit him with a Superman Punch.”

A “Superman Punch”? Boone asks himself. What the hell is a “Superman Punch”?

“I saw his lights go out before he hit the ground. Other than that, I have nothing to say.”

“Other than that”? Boone wonders. Other than that, you moronic dweeb? Other than admitting to premeditation, then the premeditated act? Yeah. Other than that, good time to clam up, dim bulb. Efficient writing style, though—life without parole in five crisp sentences. Hemingway couldn’t have done it better.

Three of the witness statements are from his little friends.

Corey’s Rockpile crewmates threw him under the bus.

Typical of gangs, Boone thinks. It’s all “brothers forever” until they start doing the hard math of murder one vs. accessory to manslaughter vs. witness with immunity; then the brotherhood goes Cain and Abel.

Of course, the police were shaping the case that way from moment one. They had two other eyewitnesses who would testify to Corey throwing the fatal punch, so the cops went to work on the potential codefendants, making sure they had Corey sewn up tight in the net.

Technically, they could book all four for murder—doubtless that was their opening gambit—but in practice they could never make anything but an accessory charge stick so they put a bright light over the “Exit” door for three of them to find their way.

Trevor’s statement is priceless.

“We were hanging in the alley when we saw this guy come down the street. Corey said, ‘Check it out—I’m going to mess with him. I’m going to f*ck him up.’ I tried to restrane him . . .”

“Tried to restrane him,” Boone thinks. Three years on the SDPD, Boone recognizes “copspeak” when he hears it.

Trevor was coached.

They just couldn’t coach him to spell.

A nice touch of authenticity, though.

And the “I’m going to f*ck him up” is really bad news.

“ . . . but Corey shook me off, walked up, and hit the guy with a Superman Punch.”

This Superman Punch, Boone thinks, seems to be like a thing, whatever it is.

“Then I heard this really bad ‘crack’ sound when Mr. Kuhio’s head hit. I knew it was real bad then. I said to Corey, ‘What did you do, dude? What did you do?’

“I know we should have called 911 and stayed, but we got freeked out and scared and so we got back in the car and drove away. I was crying. Corey was yelling, ‘I got him! I got the motherf*cker. Did you see me get him?’”

Yup, Trevor has the shovel out and he’s digging like mad. With a helping hand from the investigating officer.

Boone could practically hear the detective in the interview room with dumb-ass Trevor: This might be your last chance to help yourself, guy. The train is pulling out of the station. There’s a big difference between a witness and an accessory, kid. The former gets to go home, the latter gets to take showers with the Mexican Mafia. Then he slides a pad of paper and a pen across the table and tells Trevor to start writing.

Write for his life.

Then the cops buzz back and forth like bees, cross-pollinating Trevor Bodin with Billy and Dean Knowles. Have them toss as much shit as they can at each other, but especially on Corey. A little expository writing workshop, there in the precinct house. Pencils up, students, be sure to use vivid verbs and lively adjectives. Tell it in your own words, find your inner voice.

The one kid who didn’t get a tutorial was Corey. They just handed him the suicide pen and told him to write. “Just stick the point in your belly, son, and slash up and across. And try not to leak your bloody entrails on our furniture, kid.”

The investigating officers on the file were Steve Harrington and John Kodani.

Johnny Banzai.

A slight problem there.