Half a mind [antikvár]

1 The November heat wave was a tease, a molecule-thick layer of warmth laid over the chill of fall. It wouldn't last, Roger Tejeda thought. In another few days the joggers would have the beach to themselves again; no more tourists lying on the damp sand—which had to be thirty degrees colder than the air temperature. Tejeda could feel the cold seeping up through the soles of his well-worn Reeboks. And there would be no more picnickers tempting death by playing chicken with the riptides around the base of Byrd Rock where it jutted into the surf like a giant thumb. Tejeda watched the crowd around Byrd Rock grow to a frenzied swarm, but he held his running pace steady, kept his breathing slow and regular. Could be a sand shark in a bucket, the usual sort of draw on this stretch of beach, or a tourist caught in the drink. Tejeda reminded himself that no matter what had happened to reel in the curious, it wasn't his concern anymore. He raised his face to the wind and took a deep breath. The air smelled sweet, like May, because the onshore flow had blown the smog inland. He could see it trapped along the base of the San Gabriel Mountains like a load of dirty yellow fleece spilled over Pasadena. Tomorrow morning it would come back. Carpe diem, Kate always told him. Seize the day. Tejeda wiped the sweat from his face with the tail of 7