Boone grew out of it. All gremmies do, or they're chased out of the lineup, and besides, it was pretty clear early on that Boone was something special. He was doing scary-good things for his age, then scary-good things for any age. It wasn't long before the better surf teams came around, inviting him onto their junior squads, and it was a dead lock that Boone would take home a few armloads of trophies and get himself a sweet sponsorship from one of the surf-gear companies.

Except Boone said no.

Fourteen years old, and he turned away from it.

“How come?” his dad asked.

Boone shrugged. “I just don't do it for that,” he said. “I do it for…”

He had no words for that, and Brett and Dee totally understood. They got on the horn to their old pals in the surf world and basically said, “Thanks but no thanks. The kid just wants to surf.”

The kid did.

7

Petra Hall steers her starter BMW west on Garnet Avenue.

She alternately watches the road and looks at a slip of paper in her hand, comparing the address to the building to her right.

The address-111 Garnet Avenue-is the correct listing for “Boone Daniels, Private Investigator,” but the building appears to be not an office but a surf shop. At least that's what the sign says, a rather unimaginative yet descriptive pacific surf inscribed over a rather unimaginative yet descriptive painting of a breaking wave. And, indeed, looking through the window she can see surfboards, body boards, bathing suits, and, being that the building is half a block from the beach, 111 Garnet Avenue would certainly appear to be a surf shop.

Except that it is supposed to be the office of Boone Daniels, private investigator.